The Ivory Tower
by Wheel of Fish
Summary: There are things more dangerous than accepting lessons from a dark stranger in a bell tower, things that can destroy a man's face and his life—and Christine Daaé is soon to become intimately acquainted with them. Modern AU. ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.
1. Bread of Angels

A/N: This is my first (substantial) modern fic! I feel weird writing PotO in this style, so any feedback would be most appreciated.

It's a Leroux/ALW/Kay hybrid because that's what my brain concocted, so...don't go looking for any sort of logic, I guess. And expect to see even more familiar faces. :)

* * *

" _An ivory tower is a fine place as long as the door is open."  
_ – _Walter Darby Bannard_

It was a beautiful day for a funeral.

The sky had all the deep vibrancy of summer and the air was still warm, but the topmost leaves of the trees had begun to turn, and the breeze was crisp around the edges: a portent of shorter days and cooler nights to come. From what Christine could see through her windshield, the church was picturesque against such a stunning backdrop: pink-tinted brown stone framed by golden boughs, with spires of green copper stretching toward a cloudless azure sky.

She had always liked September. It was a month of fresh beginnings, of apples and harvest colors and newly purchased outfits that would inevitably be too hot to wear in those first few weeks. In the four years since she had dropped out of college, however, September had lost much of its allure.

Now it meant throngs of people flooding into town for student move-in. It meant Saturdays planned around the hundred-thousand fans who packed themselves into the football stadium for home games and then spilled out into every shop and bar and restaurant within a five-mile radius. And when those students and fans streamed into the little bookstore where she worked, it was an aching reminder of her own stagnancy in life.

Selfishly, she had been dreading this funeral service for the same reason.

She drew a shaky breath, shut off the ignition, and stepped out onto the street to walk the block and a half to the church doors.

Christine's heart skittered as she stepped into the foyer. Her heels clicked against tile, loudly enough to attract glances from the mourners who congregated in small groups, and it made her all the more self-conscious. She recognized some of those faces. If the double-takes and hushed murmurs were any indication, then they remembered her, too.

She diverted her attention to the casket, where a handful of mourners lined up to pay their respects. In her mind, she saw a flash of her younger self, in front of another casket at another church, pressing her palm to the lacquered wood as though that would somehow revive the soul encased therein.

This one was closed. She eyed the bland spray of white carnations, lilies, and gladioli on the lid as she considered whether to join the queue. She hadn't seen the deceased in four years, just shy of the graduation that she did not earn, and she'd only learned of his passing through social media. It had taken a series of delicately worded inquiries to former classmates to discover that he had taken his own life: a hanging, it was rumored.

The small crowd shifted, and she spotted his wife, who was parting ways with a pair of acquaintances. It was the most private audience that Christine was likely to get. Every fiber of her being strained against human interaction, but she forced her legs to move before someone else took advantage of the opening. The diminutive widow glanced up at her with the red-rimmed eyes and vacant expression of someone who hadn't slept for days.

Christine smiled feebly. "Mrs. Buquet? I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, dear." The elder woman blinked at her repeatedly. "You'll have to forgive me; I recall your face but not your name."

"Christine Daaé. I was in—"

"—the school musicals! Yes, I remember you."

Christine nodded. "I took your husband's class in stage management, too."

Mrs. Buquet pulled Christine's hands into her own. "I still attend every production, you know. _Candide_ was one of my favorites. You made a lovely Cunegonde."

"Oh, thank you."

"Joseph would have been happy to see you here. He lived for teaching you kids, even if he was too grouchy to show it." She offered a tight-lipped smile, and she patted Christine's knuckles with skin that was weathered and soft. By the time she released her hold and added, "Thank you for coming," she was already pivoting to greet a gaggle of elderly women with the same placid but vacant expression.

With that necessary interaction out of the way, Christine's muscles released some of their tension. If she could just make her way into the nave and find a seat, then perhaps she could avoid any awkward run-ins. She had so little distance to cover, and only a small cluster of people to pass—

"Christine!" A hand shot out to grab her elbow; dread coursed like ice water through her veins. She turned. The owner of the hand in question was dressed smartly in a charcoal dress and black boots; her hair hit her shoulders in pale, beachy waves that were underscored by dark roots and lowlights.

"Meg! You're blonde!"

Meg grinned and shrugged. "Something different. You know me."

Christine did, and she had the photographic evidence of the various tattoos, piercings, and kitchen-sink dye jobs to prove it. This change, at least, appeared to have been professionally done.

"I didn't think you'd come," Meg went on. "It's been so long, and...well, he wasn't the most well-liked man."

"Oh, he wasn't all bad." A charmer, Joseph Buquet had not been; but he'd known every inch of the stage, and he'd taught it well. "Anyway, it's only fair, since the faculty were so supportive after..." She trailed off in the face of so many names, ones that Meg already knew. "After everything."

Professor Valerius. Father. Mama Valerius. Struck down, one by one, like soldiers on an unrelenting battlefield. The years between their deaths had done little to erase that feeling of large-scale loss.

Meg nodded. "Of course. I'm sure that everyone will be happy to see you."

 _Including you?_ Christine thought. What was the statute of limitations on being a terrible friend?

"Well," Meg continued, looking past Christine to the entrance, " _almost_ everyone."

Christine followed her gaze to where the small crowd had parted to make way for a pair of newcomers: she, red-headed and rail-thin with a collarbone that could cut glass; he, rounder and tanner, with a wide jaw and jet-black hair. The former headed straight for Meg and Christine, as though a potential run-in had been her sole reason for attending.

"Christine Daaé!" she warbled. "I certainly didn't expect to see you here!"

Christine forced a wan smile. "Hello, Carlotta." The group exchanged a round of muted greetings before she added, "I heard about your move to Chicago; congratulations."

"Yes, yes, I've been very busy with my operatic roles. And wedding planning, too, now that Ubaldo has _finally_ proposed!" She gave her fiancé a playful swat and held up her other hand to show off a large, princess-cut diamond, almost threatening in its sharp brilliance. After Christine and Meg offered their well wishes, she added, "I was asked to sing the processional hymn today, as a personal favor to the department head. And there he is now! You'll excuse me, won't you? Dr. Reyer!" With an arm raised to flag the man down, Carlotta pushed past them, leaving her fiance to offer a curt and apologetic nod before he followed.

"As charming as ever," Christine mumbled.

"As big-headed as ever," said Meg. "She's only in the chorus, you know."

"But for the Lyric Opera, Meg! And with a musical theater background. Come on, that's impressive."

"Whatever. I can't think about it too much or I'll get stabby. Hey, Mama's already inside; want to sit with us?"

Christine peered into the nave, where she spotted Professor Giry among a throng of familiar faces from the school of music, theatre, and dance. "I don't think I can," she confessed. "I'll just sit in the back."

"Okay, well, I'm going to run to the restroom, but you'll find us if you change your mind, won't you?"

Christine nodded, watching Meg wind her way through clusters of people. It was almost as though no time had passed—as though her friend had forgiven her for months with no contact, for a series of unattended local and state performances in which Meg had appeared. Dare she hope?

At the door to the church, an elderly man offered her a prayer card tailored to the deceased. She held it between pinched fingers, wondering whether to add it to her growing pile at home. Perhaps she ought to officially collect them, as others did magnets or shot glasses or ticket stubs: souvenirs of death.

 _Stop that_ , she berated herself. _It's morbid._

She sat as far back from the altar as possible without singling herself out. She had already turned off her phone, so she busied herself by flipping through the red-back hymnal stored at the back of the next pew. She breathed in the smell of decaying paper and took a sad comfort in the melodies that she recognized, for Mama Valerius had been a devout Catholic.

A sudden squeeze of her shoulder made her start. It was Meg again, buzzing with nervous energy. "Hey, uh, I may have volunteered you to sing the Communion hymn?"

Christine's stomach somersaulted. "What?"

"Well, I overheard Carlotta talking to Dr. Reyer. He apparently asked her to sing _two_ hymns, though she claims his email only said one, and she's refusing to sing the Communion hymn that the family requested. Reyer kept going on about how it was Buquet's favorite, and how he couldn't let the family down, and just—ugh. I couldn't bear it."

"So you volunteered _me_? What if _I_ don't know the song?"

Meg looked at her feet. "I know you do, because you sang it so beautifully at Mama Valerius' service."

A sharp pang of heartbreak tore through Christine's chest. She toyed with the hem of her black dress. "I don't know...I'm so out of practice."

Meg's eyes softened, but she did not relent. "Please," she said. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important."

"Okay. Fine." Christine sighed and rose from her seat. "I'll go talk to the organist."

"You're a saint," said Meg. "Do I tell you to break a leg if we're in church?"

Christine shrugged. "If it actually happens, it'll get me out of this solo."

"Oh, stop." Meg swatted at Christine's arm, but her eyes were alight. "Will I see you at the reception?"

Christine hadn't planned to attend, but Meg looked so hopeful that she found herself agreeing to meet up at the banquet hall for the post-service luncheon.

The contents of her stomach roiled and twisted as she made her way toward the altar. By the time she had convened with the accompanist and been seated in a designated pew up front, it felt as though her entire body was suspended by a thick knot in her abdomen. She pretended to take a great interest in the hands she'd folded in her lap. Next to her, Carlotta flashed a sidelong glance, cleared her throat, and crossed her legs so that her body pivoted away from Christine.

They stayed that way, silent and unyielding, until Carlotta rose for the processional. She had apparently foregone the organist and instead sang "Amazing Grace" a cappella; it was a moving touch to an already heart-rending song. The hymn had always been a weakness of Christine's, and by the time the clergy entered the nave, her eyes stung with tears and mascara.

Six glassy-eyed pallbearers in dark suits ferried the casket to the space in front of the altar; the Buquet family followed soon after. Once the white funeral pall was draped over the coffin and the family seated in the pews, a doleful finality settled over the congregation like a weighted blanket.

As expected, the mass was stiff and formal. She imagined that the prior day's wake had been more personal, with a stirring eulogy about Professor Buquet's long history of theater work. Or perhaps the attendees had reminisced about his favorite fall tradition, an elaborate ploy to convince incoming freshmen that the theater was haunted. It had always culminated in a series of ghostly shenanigans rigged by the upperclassmen: flickers of light, falling backdrops, disappearing props.

Christine had been scheduled to work during the wake and couldn't attend. Had she done so, perhaps she would have gained insight into what might have driven someone as hard-nosed as Professor Buquet to take his own life. She did not understand it; her former classmates had not understood it.

When at last it came time for Communion, her heart threatened to punch a hole straight through her chest. It was a miracle that she even reached the lectern given that she could not feel her legs. The congregation was quiet and still, save for the preparatory movements of the clergy and an occasional cough that echoed up to the vaulted ceiling.

Perhaps that was why, even in her addled state, she noticed the man skulking in the far back, among the white plaster pillars that towered beyond the pews. He was scarcely more than a shadow but a man nonetheless, tall and slender and dark, with arms almost mantis-like in their proportionate length.

It was a strange word to attach to a churchgoer, "skulking," but no other term could have encapsulated the lithe alertness with which he carried himself.

She was unsettled as she looked to the organist for her cue, but when she glanced back again, the man was gone.

Hands shaking, Christine drew a deep breath and sang.

* * *

It had been a mistake, coming to the church. He knew that now.

There were too many people there, threatening to violate his space, even as rows of empty pews lay between the congregation and the large pillars that concealed him. He loosened his necktie and wiped broad, sweating palms down his black slacks.

When he looked at the parishioners' hands, cradling those red clothbound hymn-books, he saw only the potential for violence. He saw grimy palms and curling fingers pawing at his collar, his clothes; white-knuckled fists jabbing and swinging until they struck yielding flesh and bone. In their faces, he saw only malice; in their hearts, blackness—or worse, an empty, burnt-out shell of crumbling ash where the heart should have been.

He despised them all.

What a self-assured fool he had been, assuming that discretion would be the day's sole challenge. It was a legitimate concern, of course; people seldom forgot a face obscured by a full white mask. It was never lost on him that in masking one anomaly, he had successfully branded himself with another.

But he'd managed to work his way into the building undetected, and in broad daylight, no less. He was cautious and light on his feet, slipping easily into shadow, always attuned to passages and openings that most would overlook. He'd arrived at the church early, ahead of even the family, and kept out of sight.

Eavesdropping from his vantage point in the foyer, however, had yielded no new information. Neither had his lurking behind the pillars of the nave as the funeral service commenced. If law enforcement suspected any foul play in the death of Joseph Buquet, it would likely not be discussed here. He had been foolish to hope as much. Still, he needed to see it through.

But his surroundings now tilted and blurred into obscurity, until finally he withdrew from the nave, hunched over with nausea and nearly tripping over his own two feet. He could come back at the end of the service, he assured himself. No one would talk during the mass.

He found a water fountain and drank deeply, resisting the urge to lift his mask and douse the clammy skin beneath. Then he took refuge at the desk of a darkened church office until his pulse slowed to its usual, even cadence.

His black-gloved fingers settled on the lacquered wood of the desk, tapping out imaginary scales that built up to a sonata. The rational thing to do at this point would be to cut his losses and leave. Yet, something compelled him to stay. The music, perhaps? Despite his distaste for religion, he did have an odd fondness for its hymns. There was a ritualistic comfort in such simple melodies, in the somber formality of the accompanying organ.

And the soloists: those were a rare treat. That morning's recessional had been satisfactory, though there was something off-putting about the singer that he couldn't quite pinpoint. Hadn't there been another woman seated beside her? "Amazing Grace" would be difficult to top, of course, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he eventually wound his way back to the service.

He slipped back into the nave once more as the bread and wine were consecrated, the bread broken. He peered around a thick column to watch as the priest implored the congregation to "offer each other a sign of peace," at which point the parishioners turned to shake hands with their neighbors.

For a moment, it seemed that everyone but him was caught up in a small embrace. Palms pressed to palms; fingers brushed and squeezed; murmurs of "Peace be with you" curled around the members of the congregation like the soft yarn of a loom, knitting them together.

The back of the church felt cold all of a sudden. He shivered, and he realized that he had been scowling.

When it came time for Communion, the second soloist approached the lectern. She was a brunette, shorter and heavier than the other red-headed woman, with a black wrap dress that hugged wide hips and showed off thickset calves. He had seen her earlier, talking to a girl with horrid bleach-blonde hair. Nervousness now rendered her doe-eyed and red-cheeked, and though he smirked in anticipation of what was sure to be a subpar performance, a tiny, shameful part of him found her endearing.

And then she looked right at him.

Quickly, he jerked back so that the nearest pillar obscured him in his entirety. He hadn't expected to go the whole day without being seen, of course, but to catch the eye of someone at the lectern was to risk gaining the attention of the entire congregation. He'd have to stay out of sight for the time being.

He recognized the opening chords of "Panis Angelicus" on the organ, and the soloist proceeded with a timid start.

All the same, it knocked the wind right out of him.

Her voice was dulcet and clear and resonant, diverting and winding around him like a crisp mountain stream. He was helpless but to let it sweep him away in its current.

She was talented, certainly, but it was the crystalline sweetness of her voice that enchanted him. It liquefied his insides until his very core felt hollow with desire—not physical desire, no, but a sort of spiritual thirst that only this woman could slake. There was something melancholic about her delivery, too; it made him ache to pull her into his arms and stroke her hair until they were both soothed into complacency.

The hymn was marred by the shuffling and squeaking of shoes on the church floor as parishioners lined up to take Communion, by the murmured _Amens_ as they accepted the host. He had half a mind to storm up to the altar and demand that all speech and movement cease. He stayed rooted to the spot, however, and he could scarcely move or breathe until the song's conclusion.

She was all he thought about for the rest of the service. He periodically slid from one column to another, or shifted his weight, but his eyes rarely left her face once he dared to peer out at the congregation again. She seemed so familiar to him now, as though he had dreamed her into being.

Later, at the start of the recessional, he withdrew to a shadowed alcove in the foyer where he could wait to locate the young woman with the bleach-blonde hair. He spotted her moving along the outskirts of the departing congregation. As she passed by, he clamped a bony hand on her forearm. "Who was the woman who sang the Communion hymn?" he bit out.

Her gaze flitted up and down his masked face. "Christine Daaé," she replied, with a sharpness to suggest that he had best proceed carefully.

Daaé. The name was an electric shock to his system.

He released the girl and fell back from the crowd, stumbling into a potted ficus and nearly dislodging a framed landscape before he managed to slip into a darkened hallway. His vision was swimming again. He sank into a squatting position, elbows to knees, and raked a hand through the dark hair at his scalp.

Daaé. The man was dead, and still the name haunted him! A deep, unsteady chuckle sounded in his throat. A shared surname was no guarantee of relation, certainly. But already in his mind's eye, he could see their physical similarities: the round face and stockier build, the button nose, the chestnut-brown hair scattered into unkempt waves.

Surely this young woman had nothing to do with those ruinous events so long ago, even if her father had. But time and experience had embittered him such that he couldn't stifle his resentment. It accelerated his heartbeat and curled his hands into knobby fists. He hated her, irrational though it may have been.

But her _voice_. Ah, her voice.

He hated her for that, too, but he couldn't pretend that it was for any reason other than envy. Wasn't it enough to have one musical genius in the family? Must her talent be of the rare variety to bring him to his knees?

Oh, but that wasn't to say that her skill was without fault. He hadn't missed her uncertainty in the opening bars, nor the various choices in phrasing that were good but not perfect. She would benefit from an astute vocal instructor, one who could pinpoint what she needed to be great.

And he—perhaps it would benefit him to discover what she knew of the past, if anything. It might not be so terrible, really, to take Charles Daaé's only daughter under his wing. There would be no need to lie in wait for the cretins who had devastated him so thoroughly—not if he had a little songbird who might lead him right to their doorstep.

Yes, this was an opportunity and not a setback, of that he would make sure. He simply had to convince one Christine Daaé of the same.

* * *

 _Special thanks to LaLadyCavalier for fielding my endless singing-related questions over the past week or so!_


	2. Reconnaissance

Apologies for the delay and the shorter length, but I've had to power through some intense writer's block. Thanks for your patience, and here's hoping for a return to a weekly publishing schedule!

* * *

"A man in a mask was asking about you after the service." Meg delivered the news as she stood in the buffet line, spooning green beans onto her plate, with such nonchalance that it was unsettling.

Christine nearly dropped the pair of tongs in her hand. "A mask? Why?"

"Why the mask or why was he asking? Never mind; I don't know either way. Chicken marsala?" Meg clicked another set of tongs at Christine.

"Ew, no—mushrooms. I'm all set."

The pair trekked across the banquet hall to their table, where, from a distance, Christine spied Professor Giry tucking into soup and salad. She'd never grown comfortable talking in front of Meg's mother, whose lips seemed to purse in silent judgment regardless of the topic at hand, and the subject of the masked man was certainly no exception. "What else can you tell me about him?" she asked quickly as they wove through the sea of diners. "What did he look like?"

"Tall, thin, kinda creepy. Reminded me of Slenderman."

"Oh, I saw him! At least, I think I did. I couldn't make out his face. What did he want?"

"Just your name. And after I told him, he vanished. Haven't seen him since."

They sat at the round table with their plates. Christine felt Professor Giry's eyes on her and feigned interest in the arrangement of her napkin on her lap, after which she dove into her salad. Such diversions, however, could not save her.

"It's good to see you again, Christine," came the professor's taut voice.

Her stomach tightened, and she forced a smile. "You too, professor." _Still terrifying students into submission?,_ she wanted to ask, but she had seen one too many peers cut down by the professor's sharp tongue and unrelenting glare; the woman wasted no time on humor. "Are you teaching the same classes?" Christine asked instead. She was met with a huff.

"They tried to recruit me for musical theater styles last year, but I informed them that I could never teach anything so ostentatious. Ballet and tap only _._ "

"But Ma," said Meg, "you're an expert at technique. Think of how much the students' jazz hands would improve." She smiled prettily, and Christine briefly choked on her water.

The professor frowned at her daughter and continued. "You ought to return and finish your degree," she advised Christine. "Then you two might consider moving to New York City together. Meg could certainly use the motivation."

"I told you, I don't know if Broadway's right for me," Meg said quietly. She flashed Christine a sheepish smile. "It's so hard to make it there. I still think I might want to teach."

"Or you could join Carlotta in Chicago," Christine offered, and Meg jabbed her in the thigh with a fork.

"How will you know if you don't even try? Honestly, Meg, I'm starting to suspect it's just laziness. Some change would be good for both of you." Professor Giry stood and returned to the buffet for her main course, leaving the younger women to exchange knowing glances.

"But on the subject of change," Christine said, "I think I'll have to sell the house."

She was met with a small gasp. "What? No! You love that place!"

"Yeah, but with the taxes and mortgage and upkeep, I can't afford it much longer. Dad's life insurance payout will only cover so much, and I don't want to take any more out of savings."

"What about the inheritance money from Mama Valerius?"

Christine shook her head. "It was never that much to begin with, after the medical bills. She lived off the professor's insurance for seven years after he died. Besides, I don't want to waste it on a house that's far too big for me."

Meg set down her fork emphatically. "Rent it," she said. "Just the second level. It's meant to be a separate unit anyway!"

"I don't know the first thing about being a landlord."

"It's really not that hard. We sublet that back suite to students sometimes, remember? I'll check with Ma and find out what you need to know. Just promise me that you'll at least consider it, okay? You've lost enough as it is."

"Yes. Fine. Under one condition."

"Name it."

"We smuggle some cake out of the banquet hall and hide until your mom starts angry-texting you."

Meg grinned. "Deal."

Upon Christine's return home, she squinted at the house from inside her car, envisioning not what it meant to her now but what it used to be: cheerful but stately, with its slate-blue shingles and white trim, nestled among trees in a quiet but popular neighborhood a few blocks west of Main Street. Mama Valerius would have had potted yellow chrysanthemums blooming on the porch this time of year. A copy of _The_ _New York Times_ would have been waiting in the driveway for her dad and the professor to share and discuss.

Just inside the main entrance, the front vestibule housed two locked doors. The one to her right opened into the living room of the first floor, where Christine had relocated in the later stages of Mama Valerius' cancer. The other hid the staircase that led to the second level, virtually untouched in the two years since she had moved. She hesitated between the doors, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and then she slid her key into the lock on the left.

The wooden stairs creaked more than she remembered; the handrail was coated in dust. But aside from the layer of grime, the upstairs living room remained as she had left it: curtains drawn, textbooks and librettos piled on the coffee table, her father's violin resting in its case in the corner.

She walked slowly through the rooms, running fingertips along wall hangings and furniture as she went. Had it really been a decade since the professor had found father and daughter busking along the city streets? Since he had opened his heart and his home to the little family down on their luck at the outset of an economic recession?

Christine had almost held them back that day, desperate to stay in the homeless shelter for fear that a classmate might recognize her. "Not much longer, little Lotte," her father had said. "Soon we'll have enough for our own place again." And she had rolled her eyes at his longstanding pet name for her and put on her frayed coat and red scarf and followed him out into the autumn chill, still holding out hope that he would soon manage to pull them out of their penniless existence.

He'd never had the self-discipline for budgeting or steady employment; she knew that now. He'd been what Mama Valerius called a "free spirit," a reclusive inhabitant of his music, and it amazed her to this day that such a frustrating cornerstone of their existence had so enchanted a local music history professor that he treated them to dinner that evening—and again, the following weekend, with his wife present.

More amazing still had been the response of the childless couple, both in their mid-50s, when they learned of the Daaés' living circumstances. They had offered up the second floor of their home, historically reserved for renters, until father and daughter were on their feet again. In the end, the four had gotten on so well that even when Charles Daaé earned a teaching post at the university, he and Christine had stayed.

She still felt the weight of the others' presence in the house, all three of them, and perhaps that was why she hadn't altered a thing. The day's events, however, had set something loose and rattling inside her. It wasn't enough anymore, this lonely life she'd burrowed into. And with her meager wages unable to cover the mortgage, something would have to give, one way or another.

She dragged a large suitcase out of the hall closet, and she began to pack up the last of the Daaés' worldly possessions.

* * *

How lucky Christine Daaé was, to have what he did not.

No doubt she'd benefitted from her father's position in the music department. She had a voice that could make angels weep, and enough renown to be called upon to use it. She had at least one friend who looked out for her; she had unmarred skin and lush hair; she was young, and the doors to opportunity had not yet shut themselves in her face.

Perhaps that was why his interest had snowballed into mild obsession in the two weeks following the funeral. He had scoured the internet and memorized her face, her voice, her theater credits.

There came a point in her online history, however, when everything stopped. Suddenly, there were no more cast photos or video clips or cutesy social media updates. It was as though four years ago, she had ceased to exist. It was only through his practiced research skills and her indiscreet coworkers that he had tracked her to a bookstore downtown.

He could guess at the cause of her inactivity; news of Charles Daaé's passing had reached him even in prison. It didn't negate his irritation with her, but it did present an opportunity. Tonight, he would seize it.

His mouth was drawn as he dressed in front of his floor mirror. Long, nimble fingers fastened the buttons of his pale grey shirt cuffs, his charcoal-grey vest and his jacket, everything dry-cleaned and delivered that morning. The layers added some padding to his sparse frame, but not enough. He wound a black leather belt tightly around his waist.

The mirror stood only as high as his neck, allowing him to inspect his daily attire without the grim reminder of his face. He took great care in dressing now, unlike before, when he could look as slovenly as possible and still pass as an erratic but harmless scholar.

Now, the mask spoke of another identity: a secret-keeper, an outlier, a threat. Dressing well served to assure others that he was at least a _competent_ outlier.

It clawed at his insides, the idea of leaving his sanctuary again. He had equivocated on the matter several times, but his instinct always led him to the same conclusion: that Christine Daaé must see him, in person, before he proposed any sort of arrangement. If he deceived her from the beginning—even by omission—then her trust would be hard-earned.

She would be spared his unsightly visage, of course, and ideally those other areas of his person that were...unappealing. But she had to know that the mask was part of a package deal.

He slicked back the sparse tufts of hair that sprouted like weeds among the scar tissue on his scalp. Then, as always, he combed out errant strands of the dark brown wig before he put it on. The mask came last of the ensemble.

He slipped into a black dress coat that hit him mid-thigh, and from its pockets he withdrew a pair of matching leather gloves. The labyrinthine web of pale-pink scars on the backs of his hands flexed with his movements, and he watched the gnarled flesh disappear into sleek leather.

It was a Tuesday night, damp with drizzle and fog; patronage at the downtown shops and restaurants would be thin. He carried a large black umbrella that, with the right tilts of head and handle, obscured his face as he passed beneath wrought-iron street lamps.

Within the ten-minute walk to his destination, tree-lined streets quickly progressed from that college-town amalgam of campus buildings, residences, and churches into densely packed rows of businesses. There, the little bookstore glowed warmly on its street corner, an amber-lit beacon of literacy that pleased him despite his disdain for public spaces. It was a stroke of luck, really, that she should work someplace so accessible.

A bell above the door sounded as he entered; the smells of paper and coffee met him in a welcoming embrace. The modest space was boxed in by bookcases lining red-brick walls. And Christine was directly ahead of him, kneeling on the wood floor to stock a low shelf.

She wore jeans and a black t-shirt bearing the store logo in white. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that emphasized the roundness of her face. There was something almost cherubic about it, and she looked much younger than he suspected she was. He felt his resolve wavering. His heart rattled against the confines of his ribcage.

"I'll be right with you," she said, with a quick glance in his direction. The glance turned into a wide-eyed double-take. Slowly, she set down the books and rose to her feet. "You," she said breathlessly.

Ah. He had made an impression, then. He gave a slight nod of his head. "Good evening, Miss Daaé."

He watched, unaffected, as her eyes widened even more. He was all too aware of the effect that his voice had on others, when he put in the effort. It was difficult to pinpoint the source of their enchantment—his evenness of tone, perhaps, or his scrupulous diction, or the velvety baritone with which he spoke—but he had received much praise of it, once upon a time.

"Is there something I can help you with?" There was an edge to her voice—a warning, perhaps.

"Yes. I received notice that the book I special-ordered has arrived."

"Oh!" Her face reddened as she leapt to her feet. He followed her to the register, where she asked for his name.

"Erik," he told her. "No last name."

Christine eyed him warily as she bent to check beneath the counter, but when she surfaced it was with a book in hand. " _The Carillon in Literature_?"

"Yes." In an effort to dissolve the tension that lay thick between them, he added, "It's a new reprint of a 1915 publication. My other copy is quite worn."

She nodded, but her cheeks were still pink and her eyes riveted to the register even as she spoke. "I didn't mean to be rude, just now, but my friend...she said you were asking about me. At Joseph Buquet's funeral. That _was_ you, right?"

"It was."

"And so seeing you here—it seems like an awfully big coincidence."

"Indeed; I understand. In fact, I would be lying if I said I hadn't hoped to run into you again."

It wasn't until after she quoted his total that his words seemed to sink in and her head snapped up. "What? Why?"

"Your singing voice," he replied as he handed her a crisp banknote. "It's...exquisite. I apologize if I unnerved you, but I had to know whose it was."

She extracted change from the cash drawer and placed it in his waiting hand. "And now that you do?" Her voice lilted ever so slightly, and one corner of her mouth quirked back.

A strange, curling warmth flooded his abdomen. He absently cleared his throat. "I, ah, have a proposition."

Christine had been sliding his book into a small paper bag, and she froze at his words. "A proposition?" she repeated.

"I would like to offer you vocal instruction."

The light in her eyes flickered and vanished. She shook her head and handed him the bag. "Singing like that...it was a one-time thing. I don't really do it anymore."

"Forgive me, but you should." Her eyebrows furrowed, and he rushed to add, "The lessons would be at no cost to you."

Voices sounded at the back of the store, where a staircase descended from the second-floor cafe. Christine cast a hurried glance and stepped out from behind the counter. "My boss," she said. "Let's talk downstairs."

Erik followed her down a neighboring staircase to the basement, which housed the nonfiction sections. He was keenly aware of his height in this space, which had dangerously low ceilings, but otherwise its enclosing dimness was a comfort. It reminded him of his own home, and it grounded him.

It wasn't until she was sandwiched between the bookcases for psychology and design, effectively hidden from the rest of the room, that she spoke again. "I'm sorry, but why would you teach me for free?"

"I'm looking to give lessons full-time," he replied. "To have a voice such as yours associated with my name—it would be a blessing, and an honor. I assure you, I'm well qualified. I have a doctorate in music and a gifted ear."

"Oh, wow," she replied, with what was obviously feigned enthusiasm. He braced himself for the blow. "I'm very flattered, but...this is all so sudden, and I don't know you, and I just...I don't think I can."

"Ah. I understand." His mind raced as he scrambled for another pitch—something, anything. Where was the cool stoicism that he had perfected in prison, that allowed him to think up solutions unfettered? What was it about this woman's presence that flustered him so? Finally, his eyes alighted on a bright-red book with its title in bold: _Get Rid of Your Debt and Avoid Bankruptcy._

"Forgive me for intruding on you like this," he said with a sad smile. "It's been a while since I've had gainful employment, and I got caught up in the possibilities. Perhaps I'll try some online advertising."

He took a step back as if to leave, and her face softened. The fingers of one hand flexed at her side. He had correctly identified a weakness of hers, and she was wavering. The words echoed like a mantra in his head: _Close the deal_.

"May I be frank?" he asked.

There was a flash of panic in her eyes. "I—yes?"

"With regard to your funeral performance, any voice coach worth his salt would tell you that the opening was strained, the phrasing needed focus, and your posture left room for improvement. Those are easy enough to remedy. I could assist you there, if that's what you wanted. But I suspect it is not."

Erik held her gaze captive with his own. She swallowed, and from her face he couldn't tell whether she anticipated or dreaded his impending assessment.

"It's not the singing that you're running from; it's the performance. And we can dance around that for as long as it takes to make you comfortable again. But the music, Miss Daaé—the music lives in you. It yearns to break free, and you—you!" He shook an emphatic finger in her direction and curled his hand back into a fist. "You hold it in, against its will, because you are terrified of what will happen if you release it."

He paused to regain his composure. At some point, he had stopped acting. Was the ragged breathing that he heard his or hers? When he refocused on her eyes, they were watering.

"Let me help you," he said. "Otherwise it will only eat away at you, in time, until you are little more than a burnt-out shell of resentment. And believe me, that is no way to live."

She opened and closed her mouth several times, but no sound emerged. Perhaps he had overwhelmed her with these sudden considerations. He plucked a business card off of a nearby table, and with a pen from his breast pocket he scrawled his name and number on the back. "Here," he said, handing her the card. "Call me when you are ready to schedule a session." In a show of revived confidence, he turned and ascended the stairs.

He was buzzing with nervous energy when he slipped back out into the damp night. He would not rest until she called, and if she didn't—well, he wouldn't dwell on that now. For better or for worse, he was certain to cross paths with her again. For in those five minutes of conversation in which he had committed himself fully to her voice, their trajectories had collided so forcefully that he was not sure he would ever be able untangle his life from hers.


	3. Music of Angels

A/N: I apologize for the brief hiatus. This story has been more challenging to plan and write than I expected, and I had to take some time to get my bearings. I may take longer than usual to update this fic going forward, but please know that I have no intention of abandoning it! And I really, really appreciate all of the comments and support.

* * *

Erik's hands trembled the entire walk home from the bookstore.

These outings—first Buquet's funeral, and now this foolish trek across town—they were too much, too soon. (Though it had been more than a year since he'd been released from prison; was that really too soon?)

Anxiety aside, however, it was still a risk to leave the undisclosed safety of his home. Yet he had done it for the second time in two weeks, and only because of Christine Daaé. Whatever she knew, if anything, it could hardly be enough to justify this recklessness. He had a past in this town; anyone could see him and make a connection. _She_ could make that connection.

He silently berated himself across wet pavement and down into his safe haven underground, but all the while, he palmed the phone in his coat pocket in hopes that it would ring. How he _ached_ to hear her sing again, ached to see something besides apprehension in those doe-brown eyes that seemed to penetrate his mask, seeking answers that they could not find.

The chill of the subterranean concrete was a comfort now. He'd even added a modern area rug—rows of narrow, alternating triangles in black, gray, and white—that made the space look less spartan. He exhaled audibly as he dropped his damp umbrella at the door.

Even with his coat removed, the remaining grey vest and shirtsleeves were stifling. He peeled off his gloves, tugged loose his tie, and rolled his sleeves up to the elbows. Then he lifted his violin case from the floor and onto the arm of the sofa, where he hastily unlatched it with still-quivering fingers.

One long, sinewy forearm glowed white under the overhead lighting, revealing a network of bright blue veins that strained against translucent skin. Here, the gnarled pink scars were confined largely to the J-shaped curve along his forefinger and thumb, and down the base of the thumb to taper off at the wrist. It was this hand that lifted the instrument from its red velvet lining.

His right arm had once been that pale, too. He had been teased about it mercilessly growing up. Ah, if only his childhood bullies could see it now: mottled pink skin, rough and raised and scaly. What a field day they would have! The reddened flesh left only his fingers untouched, sheathing his arm like a reptilian casing until it disappeared beneath the rolled-up shirt cuffs at his elbows. He was lucky, he supposed, to be able to hold the bow at all.

He raised the violin to his neck. The ebony chinrest was a cool salve against his skin, the neck in his palm an embrace, the strings beneath his fingers a solace. He launched into a Brahms sonata and let the music iron out his ragged breaths.

* * *

October made its debut with an early-morning windstorm, and it was not until fifteen minutes before her interview with a prospective renter that Christine noticed the large-scale debris that had been snapped off of the oak tree out front. She wheeled her city-issued compost bin out of the garage and proceeded to rid the yard of the branches as quickly as possible. They snapped and crackled and scratched at her skin as she shoved them down into the bin, and under her breath she muttered curses that she would have never spoken to a human soul.

The rental market was weighted significantly in her favor, but she had still gone to great lengths to drive up appeal. She still bore the bruises from a long-suffering battle with Mama Valerius' ancient carpet cleaner. In the end, though, the upstairs apartment was spotless. There were new curtains in the living room and a fresh coat of paint in the bedroom. And she had just removed a second batch of chocolate-chip cookies from the oven, hoping that the scent had by now infiltrated at least the front hallway, if not the entire house. She needed to impress this woman.

The applicant sounded like a dream, based on her email: a quiet, tidy non-smoker with no pets, two years Christine's senior and with references readily available. Best of all, she was a police detective. No doubt her presence would lessen the unease that shadowed Christine when she was alone in the large house.

Unbidden, Christine had written the potential renter the day before to note that she was a musician, and that the sounds of her piano and her voice might carry.

A musician. She snorted as she switched to sweeping leaves off the porch. As though she had any right to call herself that, after four years of near inactivity. She knew what it meant, though, that she had even considered the possibility of future practice sessions: he had gotten into her head.

He, Erik, the masked enigma: all length and limbs and darkness. He of that formidable voice, at once both honeyed and sharp, like molten steel. Her stomach flipped at every thought of him.

He unnerved her. It was most certainly the mask, and yet it was more than the mask: his meticulous dress, layers upon layers with no button left unfastened; his leather gloves, which disappeared into shirtsleeves to leave no skin exposed; his towering height that made him seem all the more unreachable. Were it not for his discernible lips and chin, she would have been hard-pressed to believe that an actual corporeal form existed beneath his clothes. His was a facade that rendered him almost otherworldly: a Wellsian invisible man.

She pushed the broom with greater force. It was unfair, really, how he could be so distant and untouchable but manage to see straight through her. It was as though he'd punched a hole through her chest and rattled the cage in which she'd locked everything away. He'd shaken loose a hundred dormant dreams, and now they stirred and thrummed within her breast, riled by the smallest taste of freedom. She struggled to contain them, and she struggled to _want_ to contain them. But if she let them loose, tossed them to the wind, there were a thousand ways in which they could be maimed or crushed or killed.

Her heart raced, and her stomach churned. In one moment she was leaning against the broom handle to level her spinning head; in the next, she was stumbling into the house, sinking down to her knees, palms splayed against the cool oak of the kitchen floor.

She had grown accustomed to the numbness inside. He had set off a spark, a point of heat, and that numbness was beginning to thaw and crack at the source. Oh, it _hurt_ , and she hated him for it.

"You're mad because he's right," she muttered, and she flinched at the sound of her voice in an otherwise empty house. The nausea having subsided, she pushed herself to her feet.

The business card was still in her jacket, three days later. She took it out to study the handwriting: strange and spidery, like him. _Erik_. The name tickled something in the recesses of her memory, but nothing that she could readily recall. A sharp knock made her jump, and she shoved the card into the back pocket of her jeans.

When she opened the door to the entryway, it was a man who stood there: slight in frame, with narrow eyes that were deep-set behind thick-rimmed glasses, all below a shock of dark, unruly hair. He flashed her a nervous smile. "Christine?"

"Yes?"

His voice was soft and warm. "I'm Darius. We spoke about the rental?"

She stared at him. He was about her age, with skin the color of faded bronze. He looked bookish in his light collared shirt and navy sweater, but there was a youthful restlessness about him that reminded her of a hesitant puppy.

Had she offered to show the apartment to someone else and forgotten? She would have been more cautious with a potential male tenant, though, and his name didn't ring any bells. _Darius_.

"Oh!" She clapped a hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry. I was—it's just—I think your email said 'Daria'?"

There was an awkward pause before he moaned and covered his face with both hands. "Autocorrect!" he wailed, the word muffled by cupped palms. He let his arms fall to his sides and looked to her with a sheepish laugh. "I just got a new phone, and it refuses to recognize my name. I'm so sorry."

Christine smiled and assured him that it was an understandable error, but his expression still faltered. "Is that going to be a problem?" he asked. "You know, me being a dude?"

She would have been incapable of turning him away at the door, regardless of her feelings. But this was simply an interview, not a contract—and he was still a gainfully employed police officer, was he not? It wasn't out of the question. She put on what she hoped was an expression of cheerful nonchalance. "Not at all," she replied, and she stepped out to join him the foyer. "Let's talk upstairs so you can see the apartment."

She surprised herself with her chattiness on the apartment tour. Darius was excited and appreciative of every small detail, and his warm openness encouraged words to pour from her mouth before she could stop them. It wasn't until they had walked the whole apartment and were sharing cookies at the kitchen table that she said, "I should probably ask you why you're moving."

He finished chewing and brushed the crumbs from his fingers. "Uh, well?" He gave a sheepish smile, his eyes placating. "Honestly, I just broke up with my boyfriend, and I'm being iced out of our apartment." That boyish innocence in his face, combined with the just-rolled-out-of-bed hair above it, made her want to fold him into her arms and keep him safe, police status notwithstanding.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "How soon can you move in?"

* * *

Darius stayed until lunchtime to discuss rental terms and move-in plans. By the time he left, she felt almost giddy from the prospect of another tenant. She loved her solitude, certainly—but this house was meant to be full of people. Professor and Mama Valerius had realized that long before she had.

On a whim, she pulled out the bench from beneath the mahogany upright that had belonged to Professor Valerius. She'd dusted the piano earlier that week, but a new, thin coat of grime had already settled on the surface. She absently ran a fingertip through it as she sat. Her hands fell to her lap, and she stared at the fallboard that had effectively shut the music out of her home.

She didn't have to sing. She could just play. Just to see, to know how inept her fingers would be after years of unuse.

She found the brass knobs on either side of the fallboard, and she pushed the lid back until it receded into the piano. The keys leered up at her: eighty-eight teeth descending from the maw of the instrument, ready to nip at her fingers until she stumbled and fell. Had there always been so many octaves? It seemed like such a vast expanse now.

But when she slid her hands onto the keyboard, it was as though no time had passed at all. The easy glide of skin against key evoked her muscle memory. Chords, arpeggios, scales—all emerged to help her work the stiffness out of her fingers.

She stopped herself just short of playing an actual song. For whatever reason, she wasn't quite ready to dive in; perhaps she needed an extra nudge.

The business card burned a hole in her back pocket, and with shaking hands, she retrieved it and pulled out her phone.

* * *

Never before had the bell tower appeared so ominous.

It was a campus icon, a stone monolith among the neighboring academic buildings, and it rose pale and stately in the moonlight as Christine approached. Perhaps a dozen stories up, the darkened, slatted openings of the belfry stretched upward like a gaping maw on each side of the building. The entry door, made of heavy arched wood and trimmed with wrought iron, was evocative of some medieval dungeon.

She'd heard the carillon a hundred times before: chiming the Westminster Quarters every fifteen minutes, tolling the hour, ringing out melodies for half-hour recitals each weekday at noon. But she had never been inside the building. It had never occurred to her that one might _go_ inside the building, for any reason, until Erik had suggested it.

He could secure them an empty music classroom in the memorial tower, he'd said, for their lesson—but it had to be after nine o'clock. She had hesitated but agreed. It made sense, after all, that they could only utilize a space when it was not in use. And oh, his voice! It still wielded such a strange power over her. She had shivered to hear it again, that silken hum that reverberated deep in her bones. She had the sense that he was a man of few words, and it had been strangely intimate to hear them delivered directly into her ear.

It was only now, as she prepared to meet a masked stranger, alone, in an empty classroom at night, that she realized just how shortsighted she had been.

Her gut had so rarely led her astray, though. There were no warning bells sounding in her head. It was not what he could _do_ to her that made her stomach roil; it was what he could _say_. He had already upended her very existence with a single observation.

Still, she was not wholly reckless. As a precaution, she slid the lipstick-sized pepper spray off of her keychain and fired off a quick text to Meg.

 _FYI, am at campus bell tower for voice lesson with Slenderman. His name is Erik._

Meg's reply was instantaneous.

 _WHAT_

 _Will explain later. Just wanted someone to know where I was._

Christine silenced her phone and tugged open the tower door.

The building was ninety years old. The spaces that she could see in the small tower lobby were narrow and dimly lit, the architectural features trimmed with dark, weathered wood. She rode the elevator to the eighth floor and stepped out into a similarly dark and claustrophobic hallway. But whereas the ground level had been eerily quiet, this floor had music drifting down the corridor.

It was piano: classical, something from the romantic era—Chopin, maybe? She'd never shown as much interest in composers as perhaps she should have. But oh, it was lovely: a building crescendo of sound; a beautiful, near-frantic melody trilling up and down the keys so fast that she could hardly believe a real person had command of it.

Suddenly, it slowed to something quieter, more romantic and introspective. She found herself walking toward it before she even realized that it was in the direction of the appointed classroom.

And, in fact, it _was_ the appointed classroom. Erik himself sat at a baby grand with his back to her. Again he wore a form-fitting suit, this one black, and his bony wrists jutted out of the jacket sleeves to support the long, thin fingers that danced over piano keys with near-inhuman grace. He reminded her of a snake charmer, the way he appeared to draw the melody out of the instrument. It stunned her to realize that his hands still bore the same supple black leather that he had worn to the bookstore. Who played the piano in _gloves_?

The song's speed and complexity picked up again, his movements so fluid and flawless that she could have cried. Every part of her body slackened in reverence, and she forgot about the pepper spray until it slipped free of her grasp and hit the tile floor with a clatter.

Erik whirled around on the bench, eyes blazing. His body moved and flexed with such predatory tension that her heart seemed to leap into her throat, rendering her unable to speak or breathe. Upon seeing her, however, his posture softened. "Good evening," he said. "Please, come in."

Christine willed her legs forward, her heart still hammering. He watched impassively as she bent to retrieve the small canister from the floor. "What kind of lesson were you expecting, Miss Daaé?"

Her cheeks burned. "I'm sorry," she replied. "I just...like to be prepared."

"Ah. That also explains why you are fifteen minutes early." He moved to close the door behind her, and her heart raced in triplicate.

She nodded. "Sorry. Again."

The room was dim. Of the lights overhead, he'd turned on only one pair of four, the ones farthest from the entrance. With the door now closed, there was no illumination from the hallway, either. The angle of the sparse lighting threw his face into shadow as he sat at the piano once more.

Christine made a show of removing and setting aside her jacket, just to avoid meeting his piercing gaze. When she glanced down at her clothes, however, the navy plaid flannel and dark jeans that had looked so cute in-store made her feel wholly underdressed next to him. How long before her confidence hit rock bottom?

She clenched and flexed her fingers before she turned to face him. "I haven't prepared anything to sing," she said. "I didn't know if…" She trailed off. She had just touted her preparedness, and yet she hadn't bothered to rehearse _one song_ as a failsafe? Her face threatened to burst into flames now. She almost wished it would.

"It's fine. We will focus solely on exercises today. Shall we?" He gestured to the space beside the piano. His other hand hovered over the keys, and it seemed to quiver just slightly as she drew nearer.

She'd come with a thousand questions eating away at her—how he'd known Professor Buquet, how he'd secured the classroom, what precisely his musical background was—and now each one shriveled and died at the tip of her tongue. It was obvious now that their relationship was not to be a conversational one, but rather a business partnership. Her voice was little more than a commodity.

Erik led her in a series of warmups and exercises that gradually increased in difficulty and complexity. True to his word, he did have a good ear—and he did not hesitate to show it. He would interrupt her at will to deliver even the smallest of critiques, and then bid her to pick up where she'd left off.

It was nothing Christine hadn't experienced before, and yet she faltered. She still didn't understand him, didn't understand his aim, didn't actually want to _be here_ as much as her instincts had pulled her into it. He was some kind of gothic drill sergeant, and she—she was a lost cause. Her former spark, it seemed, had been snuffed out for good. It was only ten minutes into the session when her voice thinned and tears began to prick her eyes.

He raised a broad hand to stop her singing. "What is the use of this arrangement if you will not even bother to try?" he snapped. He flew to his feet, raking gaunt fingers through dark hair as he strode away from the bench. He began to stride across the opposite side of the room, a wiry creature of legs and shadow.

His ire seemed directed at the floor as he paced. "Do you not understand what a gift you have? What a gift you are wasting?" A pause. "Or is it that you do, but are too cowardly to wield it?" Here he halted, tilting his head to regard her with grim expectancy.

She could only stare back, stunned and breathless. Her skin flamed. Who was he to call her out so callously? This was his idea! She had expressed her reluctance to sing right from the start, and he had coerced her. But voice, oxygen, dignity: they all stuck in her throat and choked her.

"I make you nervous," he said. It was not a question.

She nodded.

"Is it me, or is it the mask?"

"Um. Both?"

"Alas, the mask is a necessity and not an option." He spoke with a brusqueness to suggest that further discussion would be unwelcome. "But I fear I have gone about this wrong."

He regarded her for a moment, tapping an index finger against the side of his thigh. Then he made his way for the door. "I should have done this from the start." With that, he flicked off the remaining lights and plunged the room into darkness.

"There," he said. "Now I am not here. Proceed."

Her pulse raced. "I—what?"

" _Sing_ , Miss Daaé. Sing whatever it is that wants to come out. It can be the alphabet, for all I care—but for God's sake, just stop _thinking_ so much."

 _I don't know how_ , she wanted to say, but she could practically feel the irritation rippling off of him. She closed her eyes despite the darkness. _You're home_ , she told herself. _You're home alone and it's just you and your voice and the piano_ —

Her eyes fluttered open. "Can I play the piano, too?"

"By all means."

She felt her way over to the bench. These keys were foreign to her fingers, but they were still a comfort, and they gave her something else to focus on. She sucked in a long breath, and it shook.

"Trust the darkness." The words, soft and dulcet, came from just behind her and set her spine tingling. "No illusions, no distractions—only music. Fall into it, Christine."

She closed her eyes again to the sound of her name on his lips. It was so deliberate, so intimate, that it was as though he'd reached out and caressed her. _What_ are _you_ , she wanted to ask.

When he spoke again, it was from across the room. "Whenever you're ready." How could he move in the dark with such quiet confidence?

She flexed her fingers against the keys. Could she even play in the dark? It would have to be something simple.

The first chord rang out before she even realized what she was playing: Sarah McLachlan's "Angel." It was, perhaps, tired and saccharine, and it wouldn't showcase her range, her breadth of skills—but the moment her fingers found those notes, the empty ache in her chest was flooded with warmth.

 _Sing with your heart_ , Christine had often been told, but the expression had never been adequate enough, never visceral enough, to capture how she gave herself over to music. She sang with every muscle in her body; she sang with her blood and bones and skin; she sang with every experience, every emotion from her past and present; and she did this until she was turned inside out, raw and aching, ravaged by the maelstrom of her own making.

 _In the arms of the angel  
_ _Fly away from here_

She saw herself back home at the upright piano, practicing the very same song, her father croaking at her from the sofa across the room: "Arms of an angel. Sounds heavenly." He had emitted a hoarse laugh at his own pun, and when it quickly morphed into a coughing spasm, he'd waved away her offer to fetch him water. "The angel of music—that's the one I'd want to carry me off. Remember him, Christine?"

How could she forget? He had been a mainstay of her childhood, the unseen angel who blessed lucky recipients with unfathomable musical talent. Her father had always claimed the tales were folklore; she'd always suspected that he'd made them up.

"Tell you what," her father had said. "If I see him after I go, I'll send him your way."

"Don't talk like that, Dad. It's morbid."

"It's not morbid; it's forethought. Who knows when this damned cancer will finally strike me down?"

He had slipped away in his sleep a month later, taking the music with him.

 _From this dark cold hotel room  
And the endlessness that you fear_

To lose Mama Valerius two years later, to a variation of the same disease, just as Christine had decided to reclaim her education—it had bled her dry. She had felt nothing since. How strange it was, that an absence could weigh so heavily on a person.

But there was a new strain on her chest now, a bubbling, burning pressure that intensified with every note that she sang. It was a miracle that she could even sing at all, and she dreaded what would happen when she stopped.

 _You are pulled from the wreckage  
Of your silent reverie_

Tears slipped down her cheeks, down her neck and beneath the collar of her shirt. She likely would have started sobbing, had she not suddenly remembered.

The angel of music came when you least expected it. He came when you were weary and downtrodden and sad.

No one ever saw his face, but he possessed, it was said, a divine voice.

 _You're in the arms of the angel  
May you find some comfort here_

She trembled as she finished the song. It was a coincidence—it had to be—but she could not shake the notion that perhaps the man who had so strangely and suddenly injected himself into her life was the one she ought to rely on for deliverance.

She was so invested in what he would say to her now that she momentarily forgot to breathe. The silence in the room was painful.

His voice, when it finally came, was soft and hoarse. "I think…" He cleared his throat. "Yes. I think that will be all for today, Miss Daaé."

The door cracked open, and then he was gone.

It was with a leaden weariness that she eventually dragged herself to the elevator and back outside. Her head swam. Something of import had just occurred, but for the life of her she didn't know what it was.

"Christine!"

Dazed, she glanced out at the courtyard. Someone was jogging toward her, a woman in an oversized gray hoodie with black leggings and boots. She squinted. "Meg?"

Meg pulled up beside her, flushed and wild-eyed. "Christ, woman, are you _trying_ to get murdered?"

"Is this about my text?"

"Um, yes, and the dozen unanswered messages I sent you in response. I didn't know what to do, so I panicked and came down here."

Christine's cheeks burned. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"It only got worse when I realized the building was locked. I've been waiting for someone to come out for the past ten minutes."

"But no one did?" Christine frowned. Where could Erik have gone?

Meg shook her head. "I was about to call the police."

Christine chewed at her lower lip, silently praying for the earth to open beneath her feet and swallow her whole. "I'm sorry. Again. I just—things are so weird with me lately. I feel like the universe is trying to...I don't know, shake things up? I can't explain it."

"You could try." Meg gave her a hopeful smile. "Want to walk to the bar? I'll even buy you a drink."

"As long as it's not that God-awful thing you made me drink that turned my mouth blue."

"The flirtini?" The two of them began to walk toward the nearest stretch of restaurants.

"No, not that one."

"Aquatini?"

"No. What? Is that a real thing? Please tell me that your taste in cocktails has matured since our last outing."

Meg laughed, and as the pair continued to wax nostalgic, Christine shot one quick glance over her shoulder. There was no sign of a masked shadow anywhere around the tower, and she couldn't have said whether she was relieved or disappointed.


	4. Solitude

For the better part of Erik's life, the dark had simply been the absence of light, the state of things when the sun set for the evening.

For others, perhaps, it was when students and young professionals flocked to the clubs and the bars, and when impossibly attractive couples overdressed for dinner and drinks, hands linked and heels clicking against city sidewalks. He had often seen the steady flow of pedestrians as he walked home from his office late at night, but rarely had he been among them. There had always been courses to plan, papers to grade, music to absorb and to write.

Not that he would have been invited out anyway. Even as a student, long ago, he certainly hadn't been.

"Lighten up, pal!"—how often those words had been thrown at him with a good-natured jostle, as though he could simply have flipped a switch to activate his interest in subpar humor and inane small talk. He did not have that kind of time or energy, not when there was still so much to read and study and compose.

There had come a point, though, when daylight was no longer a comfort. It had only served to underscore the cruelty and chaos that was humanity, to prove that wickedness did not lie only in shadow.

Then there had been the unrelenting light of the burn unit, where there was no night or day, only nurses whose faces changed yet blurred together, monitors that chimed incessantly, shoes that squeaked against tile and wheels that clattered down the hall. It was under that light—with pain hot and searing, throbbing deep down into the muscle—that he had writhed in agony and wished for death.

He had not fared much better in prison. The light had plagued him there, too: dimmer for sleep but always present, always illuminating the repulsive aberration that his face had become. He had not been allowed a mask there. He had spent every day of his five-year sentence stripped of privacy, placed under the scrutiny of fellow inmates who had stared and leered to no end. Eventually, events would occur to mark him a "suck-ass" and a "snitch," and the harassment would become more pronounced. More physical.

It stood to reason, then, that once set loose, he had clawed and scrabbled his way into the deepest, farthest corners of darkness that he could find. That inky blackness had been almost maternal in its embrace, and he so rarely strayed from its shelter now.

Music was best in the dark, it turned out. It was pure, nothing but sound, and one could produce it with undivided attention.

In Christine Daaé's case, it would keep his masked visage out of her sight so she could sing. And so, mid-lesson, he shut off the lights as a comfort to them both.

He felt so much lighter in the darkness. His eyes adjusted quickly as his muscles became looser, his movements more supple. While she felt her way over to the piano, he prowled the room as if it were his den, the thick blackness rippling around him like quicksilver.

It was when she drew a trembling breath that he faltered. Perhaps he'd been too hostile just now, projecting frustration with his own teaching ability onto her. Long gone were the days when floundering students were the norm, and even then he had not weathered them well. But with the dark behind him, empowering him, he found it in himself to offer her encouragement.

"Trust the darkness," he said to her. "No illusions, no distractions—only music. Fall into it, Christine."

Her name slid off his tongue, crisp and silvery, before he could snatch it back.

It was some time before the first chords rang out from the piano, slow and sweet and melancholy. Her voice cut in with a gentle ballad. Her delivery was simple and straightforward, stripped down to the marrow, and in that return to the basics she seemed to find herself again.

 _In the arms of the angel  
Fly away from here_

He was not surprised when she located her voice in the darkness. No, what stunned him—utterly stole the breath from his lungs—was how well she seemed to fit into it, his world of night. In a world so harsh and unyielding, she was pure softness, moving about in unspoken shadows of her own. She filled an icy void whose existence he had refused to acknowledge until now, when the truth reached out to stifle his beating heart.

He was alone.

He was _lonely_.

And in that moment, she sounded, to him, like an angel. An angel of music.

Darkness curled like a wide satin ribbon around the pair of them, he and Charles Daaé's daughter, and drew them together. She would be too absorbed in the music to notice, but he could feel the pull growing stronger with every note that she sang and every breath that he drew. Every muscle in his body slackened in response to her voice, her earnestness, her intensity. He moved in closer, until the duo of piano and soprano thrummed in his veins.

She played the final chord, a C: that most basic of chords and keys, from which so many compositions took root. It rang out clean and pure, an echo of her voice.

Her breath hitched, and he knew without knowing that if he reached out to touch those pink cheeks—she flushed so easily, didn't she?—they would be wet. She had made herself vulnerable, at his insistence, and now he hated himself for it.

It would almost be an insult to continue the lesson after this. He wasn't sure he could even face her, or allow her to face him. Still, he ought to say _something_ —but the words stuck in his throat, an he found himself backing up toward the door.

"I think…" he began, his voice thin and crackling. He cleared his throat. "Yes. I think that will be all for today, Miss Daaé." He slipped out of the room as he turned on the lights, so that she would not have to look at him, and then he bolted for the nearby stairwell.

The winding staircase darkened and narrowed as he climbed. A rush of cold air signified his entry into the belfry, and he strode across the observation deck, past some of the largest and lowest bronze bells of the carillon, which loomed tall and imposing with its framework of latticed steel. Finally, the whole of the city stretched out before him through a perimeter of grated open-air windows.

This late, only a safety light glowed on the deck. He took off the stifling mask and pressed his forehead to the cold black grating, his fingertips curling through the holes on either side of his head, as he waited for the darkness to absorb him again. The night air was clean and crisp. Lights flickered in his periphery, and the sounds of distant traffic and revelry drifted up from the streets.

What was he _doing_? He wasn't sure anymore.

This was supposed to be about her voice, and about a window to past events, but she was her voice and her voice was her; there would be no separating the two. He thought he'd recognized in her the same pervasive loneliness that hollowed his insides, and he was torn between wanting to save her and wanting to be saved.

At length, he peered through the grate at the wide, tree-lined mall outside the tower, and there she was, ten stories below: meeting up with who he could only assume was the same friend from the funeral, based on the beach-blonde hair. He watched them stroll past a fountain—where a bronze cast of Triton and sons sprayed arcs of water, soon to be shut down for the winter—and shrink from his view until they were little more than pinpricks among the distant city nightlife.

The familiar ache of envy set in. He clenched his teeth against the bitterness that flooded the back of his tongue.

No, she lived quite the normal existence, and he would not pull her into his cursed one. Though she was like a sky-siren, luring him above rather than below, she could no longer enchant him if he did not hear her voice. And so, he would instruct her no longer.

* * *

"So what's the deal with the mask?"

Meg voiced the question into her empty glass, preoccupied as she was by her attempt to fish out a maraschino cherry with a flimsy cocktail straw. Finally, she jammed the straw through the center of the cherry and brought the skewer to her mouth.

"I wish I knew," replied Christine, "though he did say it was necessary. A medical condition is the only thing I can think of."

"Why wouldn't he just say that?"

"He struck me as really private."

They were seated at a small two-top near the fireplace, where a pile of logs crackled with flame. Between the heat of the fire and the pleasant buzz from her wine, Christine was more content and relaxed than she'd been in a long time. She missed this: being at ease among friends, enveloped by the warmth of the hearth and the dark walnut tables and wainscoting. Everything was chipped and worn, but under the low amber lighting, it was cozy.

"Well, he strikes me as really creepy," said Meg. "You're not going to see him again, are you?"

"I don't know. I don't think he's as much creepy as he is...misunderstood, maybe?" Christine downed the last of her wine and then craned her neck to survey the perimeter. "Did our server _die_ or something? I haven't seen her in forever."

"You're actually defending the guy? You just told me he was terrifying!"

"I mean, yeah, he is. But...in more of a crazy genius sort of way, I think? He _did_ get me to sing again. And oh, God, I wish you could have heard him play the piano."

Meg tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. "Please be careful, okay? I still have a weird feeling about him."

"Sure. Of course." Naturally, that all depended on Erik ever contacting her again. With the way he had left things, Christine wasn't certain he would. "I'm going to the restroom," she said. "Order me another glass if the server comes back, will you?"

She wound her way to the facilities at the back of the room. The space was just as cramped and run-down as she remembered. She locked herself in a stall to find that unchanged as well: wooden door carved with graffiti, near-broken lock, the thinnest and scratchiest of toilet paper. She smiled.

Her smile faltered, however, when she recalled why she was hiding there in the first place. Now free of Meg's watchful eye, she pulled out her phone and checked for messages.

There were none from him. She hadn't really expected any, she supposed, but it was disappointing all the same. All evidence pointed to the conclusion that he no longer wanted anything to do with her, and she would never even know why.

She tried not to appear morose when she sank back into her seat. "Did the server come back yet?"

Meg looked up from her phone and shook her head. "Maybe I'll just go up to the bar."

As if on cue, the waitress appeared tableside with the drinks they'd ordered previously. "An amaretto sour and a glass of rosé," she announced as she set them down. "From the gentleman over there." She pointed toward the back of the room, and Christine turned to see whose attention Meg had managed to attract this time.

Staring back was a man with a crop of sandy hair, a boyish face, and a high-collared navy sweater: decidedly not Meg's type, if her history of lanky, brooding artist types was any indication. It seemed, though, that he was looking at _her_ , and he offered an awkward half-smile and a small wave from where he sat with a handful of male friends.

Christine let out a short gasp of recognition. "Raoul!" she said, though he wouldn't be able to hear her over the din of the bar. She waved him over.

Upon arrival, he gave her a sheepish grin. "I was afraid you wouldn't recognize me," he said, and he reached out to grab the back of an empty chair nearby. "May I?"

Christine nodded encouragingly. "Please."

While he moved the chair to their table and sat, Meg wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. Christine realized how broadly she'd been smiling, and she flushed. "Meg, this is Raoul," she said. "Raoul, Meg." The pair shook hands, and she pinched the stem of her wine glass, adding, "Thank you so much for the drinks." She lifted the glass in a brief toast and took a sip of the rosé.

Meg followed suit, but she was all business once she set down her cocktail. "So who's going to fill me in on the backstory, hmm?"

Raoul had just flagged down the server and was ordering a beer, forcing Christine to explain. "Remember how Professor and Mama Valerius had a lake house?" she asked. "Raoul's family owned the next property over, and they were all friends." She refrained from noting that the de Chagnys' beach house had been three times the size of the professor's. "Dad and I got to meet them when the professor invited us to spend the summer there. That was, what, seven years ago? Eight?"

Raoul nodded. "My sisters didn't come with us that year, and my older brother was, uh—" He looked to Christine for input.

"A bit self-absorbed?" she supplied.

"I was thinking more like...insufferable. Anyway, Christine basically rescued me from three months of agony. We hung out almost every day."

"Then what happened?" asked Meg.

"School," said Christine. "Mr. Ivy League here had to go back to his fancy business classes at _Dartmouth._ " She smiled, the banter coming back easily now.

He ignored the jab, his face eager. "But do you remember when we all met up at the lake for Thanksgiving that year?"

"Like I could forget!" Christine knew that she was grinning like an idiot by now, but the second glass of wine had begun to erode her inhibitions such that she didn't care. She looked to Meg. "Okay, so it's Thanksgiving day. Raoul and I go down to the beach after dinner, to walk off all the food. We've had...some wine."

"A lot of wine," Raoul corrected. "By our standards, anyway, because we were underage and only allowed a glass on special occasions. But my sister kept refilling our glasses when our parents weren't looking."

"So we're on the beach around the end of November, all bundled up because it's windy and _freezing_ by the water, and I'm trying to retie my scarf."

"Her _favorite red scarf_ ," he emphasized. "You made such a big deal about it being your favorite! It was irreplaceable, you said."

Christine laughed. "I was inebriated, okay? And so were you, clearly, because that's the only way I can explain what you did next."

He touched his fingertips to his chest in mock offense. "You doubt I'm that chivalrous otherwise? I'm offended."

Meg's mouth quirked back as her gaze flitted between the pair of them, an observation that slightly mortified Christine. She hurried to finish the tale. "So anyway, I take off my scarf to tie it higher around my face, and this huge gust of wind comes through and blows it right out of my hands and into the water."

Meg cringed and looked to Raoul. "You didn't!" she moaned.

Christine nodded solemnly. "He shouted, 'Fear not, my fair damsel!' and threw himself almost headfirst into the waters of Lake Michigan."

Elbows on the table, he buried his face in his hands, but his chest shook with laughter. "Oh, God, it was so cold," came his muffled response. "I thought I was going to die. But I got the scarf!"

"He got the scarf," Christine repeated warmly, and she reached for her jacket where it hung on the back of her chair.

Raoul lifted his head just as she held out the length of red wool. His eyes went wide, his lips parted, and he reached out with curling fingers to run the pad of his thumb along the fabric. "And you still have it," he murmured. "Amazing."

The waitress set down his beer, causing him to start and snatch his hand back, as though he'd snapped out of a reverie. Hastily, he took a drink.

"So wait, you guys haven't seen each other since then?" asked Meg, and they shook their heads. "What happened?"

There was a noticeable shift in the energy at the table. Raoul glanced to Christine, in what she assumed was deference, before he took a sudden interest in a loose thread on his sweater cuff.

"The car accident," she said. "Mama Valerius sold the beach house after. It was too much to deal with alone." Meg's face had fallen so somber that Christine grasped for anything that would lighten the mood. "Our dads stayed in touch, though, and they became pretty good friends!"

"A fact that astounds me to this day," said Raoul. "You'd probably never have met two people so seemingly ill-suited for friendship. But they could both be so unpredictable at times—I guess they had that in common." He took another sip of his beer. When he next addressed Christine, he avoided her gaze, staring instead at the fingers that she had curled around the stem of the wine glass. His voice was so low that she could barely make it out over the bar noises. "I'm sorry I didn't make it to your dad's funeral."

There was a twinge low in her abdomen. "It's fine," she assured him. "Your dad said that you were swamped at school."

"I was, yeah, but...I wish I'd been there."

"Well, I appreciate it. What brings you back here now?" She kept her tone light, hoping to change the subject.

"Ah, well, it took getting my MBA and starting in the family business to realize that I didn't actually want to go into the family business." When Christine gaped at him, he nodded fervently. "Oh, yes! I was very nearly disowned, as you might expect, and then I decided to torture myself further by going back for a law degree. And here I am." He gestured broadly.

Meg leaned forward. "Wait, so you're going to law school _here_?"

"Yup. I graduate in the spring." He tilted his head toward Christine. "I should have thought to look you up, but...I don't know, I assumed you hadn't stuck around. I'm sorry."

She shook her head as if to shake off his concerns, but the words stung. She had never planned to stick around, after all. She'd been aiming for bigger things.

"Hey," he said, "why don't you come to the game with me this Saturday?"

She blinked. "The football game?"

"Yeah, my family has a suite in the stadium. It's a pretty nice setup, even if you don't like the sport. And I'm sure Phil would be happy to see you again." Raoul turned to Meg. "You're invited too, of course."

Meg declined, having already made plans out of town, but not without blatant emphasis—aimed at Christine—on how much fun it would have been to attend. "You should still go, Chris," she said, with an innocent flutter of eyelash that made Christine want to pinch her.

She hesitated and chewed at her bottom lip. She'd never had an interest in the sport, but she had a rare Saturday off this weekend, and she liked being around Raoul again. He had always been an antidote to the melancholy moods that she would sometimes slip into. "Yeah, okay," she said. "I'll go." She was rewarded with the same boyish enthusiasm that had first endeared him to her.

He finally left them to rejoin his party, but not before exchanging details and phone numbers and informing Christine and Meg that he'd taken care of the tab.

"He's cute," said Meg once he'd gone. "And he's totally into you."

Christine shook her head. "No, that's how he is with everybody. Honest." She was met with a skeptical glare, and she added, "It was never like that with us."

"Eh, well, people change. Or, at the very least, they make concessions when they've been out of the game too long and need an attractive entry point. Hint hint."

"Meg!" Christine chastised, but she was smiling. "You have no shame."

As if on cue, Meg sucked the last of her drink through a cocktail straw until it made a hollow slurping noise. "Less shame means more fun, and I refuse to let you convince me otherwise. Drink, woman!"

It was shortly after midnight when Meg insisted on driving Christine home. They parted with plans to meet up again soon, and Christine was smiling as she walked up to the house. Still, with distractions now out of the picture, she felt that familiar, hollow ache returning to the pit of her stomach. She rummaged through her jacket pockets for her keys.

Her fingers closed on a bit of cardstock, and she knew what it was even before she pulled it out. Under the porch light, the spidery handwriting taunted her now. _Erik._ She ran a thumb over the letters and, with a shudder, recalled the viscous murmur that was his voice, behind her, in the dark.

The sounds of an engine and a car door close by pulled her from her thoughts, and she quickly located her keys as she listened nervously to the approaching, crunchy scrape of shoes against leaf-ridden pavement.

"Evening."

She whirled around, her heart pounding even as her brain identified the source of the voice: Darius, in sharply pressed clothing to indicate that he'd just come from a late night at work. She forced a smile and tried to still her trembling hand as she forced the house key into the lock. "Hey there. Everything going okay?"

"If you mean the apartment, then yeah." He gave her a crooked grin. "It almost makes up for my abysmal social life."

"I know the feeling." She pushed open her door and was about to cross the threshold when something compelled her to stop. "I was just about to open a bottle of wine and watch some terrible TV," she told him. "You could always join me, if you want." He hesitated just long enough for her cheeks to go hot, and she added, "Or not. Whatever. I'm sure you're tired."

"No," he said. "I'd like that. It's just...do you mind if I shower really quick and then come down? I've spent way too long in these clothes. There's an extortion case that's killing me at work."

She waved him off, secretly glad for the opportunity to tidy up and light a scented candle that she hoped would mask the stale air. She buzzed around the living room as though her life depended on it, all the while recounting the day's developments. Three friends in one night! She could scarcely recognize this socialite version of herself.

Three friends and one strange acquaintance, she reminded herself, because her time with him had been the most surprising of all. On impulse, she pulled out her phone and started drafting a message.

 _Hi, it's Christine._ _I apologize if I was difficult this evening, but I'm unused to your teaching style._

Nope. Start over.

 _I know we got off to a rocky start, and I'm not sure where we stand at this point._

No. Delete.

 _I'm sorry to bother you, but I was confused by your reaction to my singing and had hoped you could provide more specific feedback._

She resisted the urge the chuck her phone across the room. What was it that she wanted from him, besides his unmitigated approval of everything she did? (She was not so naive as to believe she could earn that, but the desire to be liked and accepted still ran strong after all these years.) She frowned at the little screen.

 _I would like to see you again, if you are still willing to work with me._

There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" she called out, and with Darius making his way into her living room, she quickly deleted the text and shoved the phone back into her pocket.

Perhaps she had not changed so much after all: Christine Daaé was, and had always been, a coward.


	5. Among the Elite

A/N: Please enjoy this extra-long chapter as a reward for your patience. :)

* * *

Perhaps it was because she'd never had any, but the thought of money made Christine's stomach churn.

Certainly, she appreciated having enough to live on. But budgets and loans and investments and taxes: the very words repelled her, made her shrink back into a state of denial. All the while, she berated herself for her aversion: had she forced herself to understand these things, then perhaps she could have offset her father's carelessness. But no—the pair of them had always been too similar, in many respects. As long as she paid the bills in full and on time, that was enough. That was generational progress.

It was the pursuit of wealth above all else that unsettled her. Money was such an intangible thing, little more than numbers flitting through cyberspace. Beyond her general comfort, what could it buy that she did not already have? Useless fripperies, if the de Chagnys' beach house had been any indication.

Their obvious wealth had unseated her to the point where she'd avoided the house altogether, if she could. In her summer spent with Raoul, he had usually come over to the professor's property instead, or had taken Christine into town.

It wasn't so much the expensive setting that bothered her, but rather her fundamental incompatibility with it. She could not sit on a designer sofa next to Mrs. de Chagny, who had a pristine white sundress and manicured nails and perfectly coiffed hair, and pretend that she had any right to be there.

It wasn't until after she'd agreed to attend a mid-afternoon football game in the family's suite that Christine began to recall these insecurities. The unease returned in slow ripples at first, to lap at the back of her mind throughout the week. By Friday night, it rocked her with swells so great that she had to talk herself out of feigning illness.

She'd declined Raoul's offer of a ride in favor of walking: a decision she was coming to regret, after nearly forty minutes and some undesirable inclines. Her anxiety skyrocketed at the busy intersection just outside the stadium gates, where she had to weave around scalpers and fight the flow of traffic as thousands of fans pushed through the turnstiles, in order to meet Raoul at the back entrance reserved for suite-holders and their guests. Her neck and shoulders were painfully knotted by the time she arrived.

"Madhouse, isn't it?" asked Raoul as he led her through security. "You look like you could use a drink."

She gave an exaggerated sigh. "If only it were allowed!" she lamented; the stadium policies were notoriously stringent.

But he clucked his tongue. "Oh, Christine, don't you remember? Rules don't apply to the de Chagny business moguls."

Sure enough, when he led her into the suite, there was a bartender set up among the gleaming cherrywood cabinets and marble countertops. It couldn't have been a simple case of fans smuggling in contraband; at the very least, someone had to have turned a blind eye, if not arranged for the service altogether. She recalled that Raoul's father and brother were both alumni and, no doubt, significant benefactors. Charitable contributions were certainly reciprocated in one way or another.

The room was only moderately sized, presumably to maximize the number of suites from which the stadium could profit. It was, therefore, impossible to miss Philip de Chagny, Jr., as he and an older gentleman erupted in bellowing laughter.

Physically, Phil was a taller version of his younger brother—sandy hair, athletic build, a sort of all-American look—but he oozed bravado with every word that he uttered. Christine recalled the way a room would seem to fall under his command as soon as he entered, a resting dominance surpassed only by that of Philip de Chagny, Sr.

"Drink?" asked Raoul.

"God, yes," she answered, unable to tear her gaze away from Phil in his undoubtedly designer jeans and licensed navy-blue track jacket. "No preference. Surprise me." She suddenly felt like a pauper in her frayed jeans and hoodie.

"Christine Daaé!" Heads turned when Phil's voice cut across the room. He grinned as he walked over, rocks glass in hand, and widened his arms for an embrace. "How are you?"

He smelled strongly of cologne and whiskey. She forced a smile and returned the hug with the lightest contact possible. "Pretty good," she answered. "Thanks for having me. Are your parents here?"

"Nah, they're down in St. Barts. They spend the cold months there now, October through March."

"Sounds lovely. Easing into retirement?"

"Well, Dad still does business remotely. But I'm sure you can guess which generation is actually running the show these days." He winked and nudged her with his elbow.

Raoul reappeared at her side, a drink in each hand. "Let's sit," he told her, with a nod of acknowledgement toward his brother.

He led her to three short rows of seats that overlooked the stadium through vast paneled windows, and he handed her a lime-garnished highball glass once she'd made herself comfortable. "Gin and tonic," he said. "I had her make it a double."

"Bless you."

He sat beside her and sipped at his own drink. "I'd forgotten how nervous all of this makes you."

Christine took in the field from their vantage point. A hundred thousand fans packed the stands in a sea of blue and gold. Above, the sky was thick with colorless folds of cloud.

The suites loomed over either side of the oblong stadium, two stories high. The de Chagnys' in particular was situated at the 45-yard line. There were no walls dividing the seating between one suite and another, and the large window panels overlooking the field could be raised such that spectators hung out of them: all the sensation and thrill of being among the crowd, without having to actually rub elbows. A pang of guilt lanced her midsection.

"You didn't have to come, you know," said Raoul. "But I'm glad you did."

She smiled for his sake. "Couldn't pass up a reunion with my teenage beach buddy." Her eyes raked over the field once more, and she spotted the uniformed marching band members lining up at the mouth of the entrance tunnel. "Shhh," she said, hitting Raoul lightly on the arm. "The band's coming out. I love this part."

They fell into easy conversation once the game started, their rapport so natural it was as though no time had passed. Off-topic discussion was, of course, relegated to commercial breaks and timeouts, but when the game was in play she made an honest effort to understand it better, questioning him at every turn. He was patient and accommodating, even when she emitted a childish snort each time the announcer referred to a "tight end."

The pair got up to freshen their drinks after the first quarter, creating an opportunity to speak out of earshot of the others. "I thought Phil was living in Manhattan," Christine said.

"He is, mostly. But he spends a lot of time here, too."

"For what? Football?"

"Aha, not a what, but a _who_." He pulled her closer to the windows and pointed down to the sidelines, where the university dance team accompanied the now-seated marching band in an attempt to energize the crowd. They sported sleeveless white mini-dresses that looked entirely too sparse for the early October weather, and they waved blue-and-gold pom poms with almost nauseating enthusiasm.

"Front and center, with the dark hair," said Raoul. The girl in question had tan skin, long legs, and an unrelenting smile, and she moved with near inhuman poise.

Christine found herself at once both envious and enthralled. "Who is she?"

"Lisa Sorelli. Team captain." As though on cue, the dancer performed a high kick that sent her foot soaring above her head.

"Isn't she kind of...young?"

"She's a grad student. Social work. Still a bit young for him, yeah, but not creepily so. They met last year at one of those booster events set up to drain money from alumni."

Christine glanced over at Phil as he gave a comrade a jovial punch to the shoulder, and then back to Lisa Sorelli where she dazzled on the field. What would it be like to have such good looks and charisma? She could fake it, certainly—she had the acting training for that—but, fake or real, it sounded so utterly exhausting to her now.

Food appeared just before halftime: catered platters of crudités and antipasti, beef tenderloin and shrimp cocktail, chicken wings and sliders. Raoul urged her to grab a plate before the others—"so you won't miss any of the marching band"—and thus the pair of them were near the door when two newcomers arrived.

Both were men likely in their late 50s, but the similarities generally stopped there. One was tall and broad-chested, muscled in the arms and soft around the middle. He had a thick head of gray hair and wore khakis with a collegiate polo and matching ball cap. The other, by contrast, was thin and bespectacled and bald, looking out of place in a crisp suit and tie. Both looked oddly familiar to Christine.

"Heya there, pal!" said the larger man, clapping Raoul on the back with a massive paw.

Raoul made introductions, and it became instantly clear why she had recognized the men: the brawnier one was Richard Firmin, the university athletic director, and his companion was Provost Armand Moncharmin. Each offered her a superficial smile and a rough handshake, and then their attention turned to Phil, who had spotted them and was jogging over from the seating area.

"Gentlemen," he addressed them. "I'm surprised you could get a moment away."

"We thought it would be a good time to discuss...matters," said the provost, and he eyed Raoul and Christine disconcertingly.

"Come on," said Raoul, motioning to her as he collected his plate. "Let's go eat."

The three men had disappeared by the time she situated herself in her seat. "What was that all about?" she asked. "Are they friends?"

"They've been family friends for a long time, because of my dad. But business partners might be a better term when it comes to Phil. There's a lot of money going into that school."

"And some kickbacks for it, I imagine."

He nodded. "I think he's in trouble, to be honest. Maybe all three of them."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I don't know. I've just caught snippets of conversations here and there—stuff about demands and threats and police. And he's so much more tense than usual."

She watched Phil carefully after that. If there was, in fact, anything the matter, he was doing a marvelous job of downplaying it. That was, she recalled, one of his more unnerving talents.

The already too-long game went into overtime, with the home team eking out a triumphant win that made the crowd go wild. There was a roar of celebration, an electric current that even she felt, jumping up and down excitedly with Raoul and cheering until her voice began to rasp. Eventually there was another round of drinks and a toast, and by the time they trickled out of the stadium, it was dark.

"We usually head to dinner after this," Raoul said. "You're extended an invitation, of course—but you've got that blank sort of look that you always used to get when you were overstimulated." Mortified, she snapped her head up to protest, or apologize, or something—but he grinned and waved away her concern. "The years have hardly changed you one bit, Christine Daaé. Go home and relax, and we'll catch up again later."

He hugged her, and she was beaming even as she was folded into the throng of fans who were packed into the sidewalks like sardines. It was rare that she connected so well with a member of the opposite sex, without feeling pressure for anything beyond friendship. Was this what it was like to have a brother?

The night air was crisp and smelled like a bonfire. Instead of returning home to her house on the quiet west side, she found herself walking to central campus, in the heart of downtown. It was always vibrant and exhilarating at this time on a Saturday, especially after a good game. Students migrated in small packs, loud and unruly, still on their post-win highs.

She heard the bell tower before she saw it: the melody that signified a quarter to the hour. Was anyone there now? What went on in a bell tower at this time of night? Her legs seemed to carry her there of their own volition, even as the skies changed and rain began to beat down, icy cold and unrelenting. She pulled her hood up over her head, but the rain was rapidly soaking through her clothes.

It seemed a perfectly legitimate reason to try the wrought-iron handle of the tower door. Later, she would come to question her subconscious.

The door opened.

With the students and revelers so active outside the tower, the empty interior was somehow more unsettling this time. A fluorescent overhead light flickered in a far corner of the lobby, reminiscent of a horror film; she forced herself to laugh at the thought so that she wouldn't entertain it further.

Next to the elevator was a directory that she had overlooked on her first visit, and she studied it now. Most of the floors housed classrooms or offices, but there at the top were two words that would delight her in any context: observation deck.

It was on the tenth floor; the elevator only went up to eight. With a fleeting burst of courage, she rode it as high as it would go—to the same floor where she'd had a lesson with Erik earlier that week—and stepped out to find the rest of the way.

The hall was silent: no piano music wafting down the corridor. She turned left, in the direction opposite the classroom, and there it was: a windowed door leading to a staircase.

The stairs wound up and up, serpentine and narrow, the metal rail icy against her palm. Her unease grew with every second of her climb. What if she wasn't meant to go up unaccompanied? Would close proximity to the bells rupture her eardrums? What if she stumbled into a roost of bats?

Christine's heart was pounding by the time she surfaced in the belfry, and the suddenly frigid air colluded with her damp clothes to create an aching chill that numbed her skin and seeped into her bones. To her relief, however, the soaring space around the carillon was clean and bat-free and well lit. Instead of windows, there were sturdy mesh screens that were no doubt the source of the cold.

The carillon was right in the center, mostly overhead: a mammoth network of bronze bells and crosshatched steel beams. She nearly bumped into the edge of a bell that hung at her eye level. It was one of the largest, almost the size of a small car, with large, mottled swaths of pale mint-green and rust-brown from exposure to the elements.

She slowly walked the perimeter of the bell chamber as she took in the view. The stadium was just barely visible in the distance; how far removed and self-contained it seemed now. Inside, she had felt somehow connected to a hundred thousand people, as though she'd been a part of something special. Now, she felt more alone than ever.

The sudden clanging of the bells overhead made her start. They were loud, enough to make a conversation impossible without shouting, but not bracingly so. It was difficult to see them among so many support beams, and so she continued to circle the carillon in hopes of a better view. It was then that she realized the brick wall at the base, behind the largest bells, had an interior window. It was not just a wall, but a room. She rounded its corner.

The space was about the size of her bathroom, with a wooden console at the center: slightly larger than an upright piano, with thick, vertical wires feeding straight up into the roof. At playing level, two rows of wooden batons jutted out from the unit.

Seated on a bench in front of the apparatus was a tall, dark-haired man with his back to her. There was something terribly familiar about his figure, so sharp and angular and rail-thin. He wore a pale-gray dress shirt and charcoal-gray vest, but no jacket. She knew those clothes.

Beneath the bench, she could just make out his feet pressing down on wooden pedals. His arms were positioned in front of his torso such that she couldn't see them. But when his left arm suddenly stretched out to hit a low note, striking the baton with the underside of a loose fist, there was decidedly a black leather glove on that hand.

Her breath caught in her chest. While the carillon tolled the hour—nine deep clangs, slow and steady—she debated whether to stay or flee.

Ultimately, her inability to act decided for her. When Erik pulled his hands off the batons and pivoted on the bench, she stood wide-eyed and frozen before him.

He stopped abruptly. Dark irises assessed her through the eyeholes of the white mask. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, along that column from mouth to clavicle that was, again, his only expanse of bare skin.

For a long time, they regarded each other with a sort of mutual uncertainty. He opened and closed his mouth twice before she reluctantly took initiative.

"I didn't mean to intrude," she said. "I just—it was raining, and I saw that there was an observation deck, and I didn't know—"

"It's fine." His reply was curt. His hands in their black leather casings gripped the edge of the bench on either side of his lap.

Christine had never been fond of small talk, but she had the sense that Erik loathed it even more. She would not try to outmatch him in a battle of wills. She offered a sheepish smile and gestured broadly, saying, "I always assumed that this was all computerized."

"Never."

"Does that mean there's someone here every single day, every fifteen minutes?"

"From nine a.m. to nine p.m." Beside his thigh, the long fingers of one hand began to flex with what she could only assume was impatience.

 _I should go_ , was the response in her head. But so strong was her desire to hear him speak again that she instead moved into the doorway to ask, "How does it work?"

He hesitated, exhaling audibly through his nose, and then he slowly rose to his feet. "This is the clavier," he said of the keyboard contraption behind him. "Each baton and foot pedal is connected to one of these wires"—here, he pointed to where the parallel wires fed up into the ceiling—"and the wires converge overhead. Now, follow me."

He pushed past her to round the corner of the little room, where the largest bell hung, its bottom edge at the level of her chest. "Look inside," he instructed, "at the clapper. The striking mechanism."

There was a wire running through a metal ring at the very bottom of the clapper. Erik showed her how each wire traveled to a central location to be directed, via crank, straight down into the clavier. "There are fifty-three bells," he stated. "It's one of the largest carillons in the world."

Christine stretched her fingertips toward the bell's weathered surface but caught herself, hand hovering in midair. "Can I touch it?" she asked him.

"You may."

She planted a hand against the base of the bell, the dulled brass icy under her palm. She felt wholly insignificant beside it, this composite instrument whose housing required an entire building constructed to that specific purpose. "It's amazing," she said, more to herself than to him, "that someone, long ago, even conceived of all of this, let alone built it."

"Bells were communication," said Erik, "long before they were music. The loudest way to reach the greatest number of people. It was likely a deviant mind that first imagined them repurposed for beauty." He, too, flattened a palm against the bell's surface, with all the tenderness of a man soothing a living, breathing creature. A pang of something lanced her chest: longing? Envy? No, surely it wasn't possible to be envious of a _bell_.

Christine drew her arms around her torso against the ever-worsening chill. Her hands disappeared into the sleeves of the hoodie. "A deviant mind," she repeated, and she smiled up at him. "It sounds almost like a rebel creating a musical instrument to fight injustice."

"Ah, but is that not what music is for? To effect change?" They locked eyes, and she thought she saw on his lips the faintest trace of a smile. It disappeared, however, as quickly as it had materialized. He abruptly snatched his hand away from the bell and straightened. "You're cold," he said.

"I'm okay," she replied, but her quietly chattering teeth betrayed her. "It's just...I got caught in the rain." She gestured awkwardly to her person, as though he couldn't see it for himself.

Erik was silent for a moment, his fingers again flexing at his sides. "Come with me," he finally said. He stalked off toward the stairs without so much as a glance back to see that she followed. She hurried after him, doubling her usual pace to match his long strides.

He navigated back down the winding stairs and into the elevator, where he mashed the button for the second floor. The doors creaked shut, and the pair of them stood, facing forward, in silence.

Christine examined him in her periphery. He should have been less intimidating without a suit jacket or his black coat, but he wasn't. He carried himself with an intent that made him formidable despite his rangy frame. His gloved hand was splayed against his thigh, still emanating that dark otherness that made her shudder.

On the second floor, he led her to a small, windowless office. Everything was brown: the 1950s wood paneling; the desk and two chairs; the dark, dingy carpet. The computer and metal filing cabinet were the only deviations. Erik stuck out even more here, sleek and sharp against old-fashioned and homely—so much that when she asked him whose office it was, she was genuinely stunned to hear him answer, "Mine."

He put on the charcoal suit jacket that had been resting on the back of the desk chair, and he motioned for her to sit in the chair opposite. As she did so, the implications of this new information set in, and she frowned. "When we first spoke, at the bookstore, you said you weren't employed."

His jaw twitched. "I said that it had been some time since I was gainfully employed. You'll forgive me if I don't consider the oversight of building maintenance to be gainful employment for someone with a doctorate."

It was certainly more reliable than busking on the street. Her attitude toward him soured on account of his arrogance, yet she found herself still talking, if only to distract herself from the stinging sensation of wet clothes against skin. "How is it that you get to play the carillon, then?"

"Ah. That would be through a combination of a friend in the music department, students who dislike playing the evening and weekend shifts, and sheer luck. It is certainly not in my job description."

On top of the filing cabinet was an electric kettle, and Erik got up to remove the metal pitcher from its base, excusing himself to fill it. In his absence, Christine tugged off her wet hoodie and slung it on the back of her chair. The t-shirt beneath was mostly dry, but with her arms uncovered, she wasn't any warmer.

Upon his return, Erik replaced the pitcher and switched on the kettle. "It will be just a few minutes," he said as he settled into his chair. The desk between them was so sparse and immaculate that she could have believed the office was unused.

She studied him at this angle. His neck was long and sinewy, his chin narrow and chiseled. The dark eyes beneath the mask caught hers, and she quickly looked down at her hands. "It's so quiet here," she remarked.

"It _is_ Saturday night," he said, with an air of agitation. Her cheeks warmed at their centers. When he spoke again, however, his words were softer around the edges. "I suppose none of that matters to the serious academics, which is likely what you were thinking." A pause. "In truth, many of the students and faculty think the building is haunted." She looked up again, eyes wide and questioning, and he nodded. "A university regent jumped to her death from the eighth floor, about thirty years ago."

"What makes them think it's haunted?"

"Strange noises at night. Doors closing. Objects missing or rearranging themselves. All things that can easily be explained, if one's mind is not predisposed to fantasy. But I cannot say that I mind the quiet."

"So you don't believe in ghosts?" she asked with a wry smile.

He shook his head. "There are enough of us already living as ghosts among men."

The kettle beeped. He withdrew from his desk drawer a mug and a small box of assorted teas, the latter of which he slid across the desk. "This is all I have at present," he said. "Forgive me if it's lacking."

"It's fine, thank you."

He poured hot water for her but none for himself, and he returned wordlessly to his chair. While the tea steeped, she cupped her hands around the mug to warm them. Small shivers still wracked her body.

With exhaustion setting in, she gave up on small talk and caved to the awkward silence. Erik remained motionless until she began to sip cautiously, at which point he stood. "Please excuse me for a moment," he said as he made his way to the door. He paused. "I would be much obliged if you remained where you are."

A strange request—where else would she go?—but she nodded.

When he returned almost ten minutes later, it was with a thick gray blanket that he handed over without comment. She thanked him and wrapped it around her shoulders.

His mouth was drawn tightly now, and the muscles in his jaw flexed. While she drank her tea and thawed, he drummed his fingers against his desk and his thigh, uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, shifted uneasily in his seat. He looked so uneasy in her presence that she contemplated leaving without finishing the tea, but then he cleared his throat.

"I, ah, saw a reference to one Assistant Professor Daaé, in some departmental records," he said. "Charles Daaé. It's an unusual surname. I don't suppose that he is of any relation?"

She lowered her head, peering into the contents of her mug. "My father."

"Indeed? And does he still teach?"

"No, he...passed away. Four years ago."

"My condolences."

"Thank you." She smiled softly into her tea. "It's a miracle that he even got the position, to be honest."

There was a beat of silence before he asked, "What do you mean?"

"He hadn't taught before. He wasn't even working, around that time; we were staying with friends, an older married couple, at their beach house. One of them was a professor of music history here." She lifted her head to look past Erik, at the paneled walls behind him, trying to hone in on the memory.

"I remember that we were playing cards with the owner of the house next door, who was this bigshot donor for the university, and the professor told Dad that he'd make a great addition to the music department, and he should teach violin. And this guy, who really liked Dad, said he'd put in a good word at the school. Then two months into the fall semester, there was this sudden opening, and Dad got called in for an interview. They offered him the job within the week."

Christine let her gaze drift back to Erik now. His mouth was set in that firm line again, the muscles at his jaw tensing. "And who," he asked slowly, "was this 'bigshot donor,' as you called him?"

She hesitated. "Philip de Chagny, Sr."

His eyes flickered shut for the briefest of moments, and he exhaled audibly through his nose. "I see," he said quietly. "Yes, I do recall that name." His voice sounded strained somehow, and she found herself hurrying to change the subject.

"But you seem very qualified," she said, more brightly. "How is it that you've ended up overseeing this building?"

He looked away, shifting in his seat. "Circumstance," he replied, and he did not elaborate.

It didn't suit him, this office or this job. She hardly knew him, but she knew that much. It was only at the piano and then again at the carillon that she'd perceived him to be in his element. Had she, with her inept performance earlier that week, ruined his chances at achieving something better? She suddenly felt ill.

"I'm sorry about the other night," she said. "The lesson."

His gaze flicked back to her face. "Whatever for?"

"I—well—I just assumed I was bad, or—or difficult? It seemed like you didn't want to work with me again."

"Is that what you think." His reply was not voiced as a question, but still she nodded. What else could she possibly have thought? "Well, you may rest easy, Miss Daaé, because you did not disappoint. I've simply decided not to pursue that avenue after all."

With that, he got to his feet. "I hate to force your departure, but I'm afraid I have a building to lock up."

"I—oh. Okay." His abruptness had caught her off guard. He watched impassively as she set down her mug and neatly folded the blanket, which she placed on the desk. She pulled her hoodie back on; it was still damp and cold.

"It's still raining," he said. He reached behind the office door and withdrew an umbrella that he held out to her. "I insist that you take this."

"But how will you get it back? And won't you get wet?"

"I do not need it," he maintained. "Please."

Defeated, she moved to take it from him, but in her flustered state she wrapped her hand around not only the umbrella handle, but several of his fingers as well. With a sharp inhale, he flinched backward so violently that the umbrella clattered to the floor. It stunned her to the point of near-paralysis; she could only stare as he again flexed his fingers at his side, as though testing to ensure that they still worked.

He did not meet her gaze. "I beg your pardon," he muttered, but he made no move to recover the fallen item.

She bent and retrieved it, and then she thanked him for his hospitality. There was a stifled exchange of pleasantries before she turned to exit his office.

Something, however, compelled her to stop and turn around. "For what it's worth," she said, "our lesson—it changed something. Changed me. For the better, I mean."

He stared, his lips parting ever so slightly, but he did not reply. It was with a forced, tight-lipped smile, briefly cast in his direction, that she walked away from her angel of music.


	6. Promenade

A/N: I apologize for the shorter chapter. As I was writing, I realized that the next scene, which I'd planned to include here, will actually be more substantial than I initially thought. I'd like to do right by it, and it would have made this chapter a behemoth anyway, so please bear with me. :)

* * *

He thought of her, now, whenever he played the nine o'clock bells on the clavier.

This evening was no exception. With each toll of the hour, he saw her in his mind, standing wide-eyed and waterlogged at the doorway to the playing cabin. Just as he'd been drawn to her voice, so, too, had she been lured by his playing.

It sometimes felt as though music lived in his fingertips, burning and straining to get out, and when he touched the right medium it would surge out onto the page or the keys or the strings. He sensed that same strange tension within her, pulsing beneath her skin. What would happen if those two forces ever touched?

He nearly shuddered at the thought.

His hands had long had the notes of the Westminster Quarters written into their muscle memory, and as they pressed down on the wooden batons with methodical precision, they tingled to recall the umbrella incident.

Those hands had not felt the touch of another since...well, who could say? Just the pressure of her fingers on his gloved hand had sent him reeling, back to a time not so long ago when touch had equated to pain. It had taken so long for his ruined skin to shed its agonizing sensitivity, and by that point, his fellow inmates had already battered him too many times to count.

He'd instinctively expected it to burn when she touched him: a perhaps melodramatic, but nonetheless conditioned, response. What he had not expected was how much that single brush of hand would plague his thoughts in the days to come. That fleeting moment of contact—contact without ill intent—had reminded him of what he was missing.

He thought back to that night in the bookshop, when he'd been so certain of their tangled trajectories. Time had done little to erase that premonition. He still thought of her often, and not just of her voice. No, there was something enchantingly hopeful in her eyes, despite her sadness.

It made him want to hope, too.

But he did not want to drag her into this...whatever it was. As of right now, it was little more than a revenge fantasy. But it would be more. It _had_ to be more. And when that time came, he would be putting his life at risk—and possibly hers, by proxy. He could not have that on his conscience.

In his weaker moments, though, he told himself that there was no use fighting it: that maybe, just maybe, her influence could save him from himself.

He played the nine deep chimes of the hour, and then he let his hands settle in his lap as the final clang reverberated through his bones. For the life of him he did not know how, but in the ensuing quiet, he sensed her presence even before he turned around. It was as though she'd prompted a change in the air, one that brought with it fresh promise.

Slowly, Erik pivoted on the bench.

She was decidedly less frazzled this time, standing confidently in tall brown boots over dark jeans. She wore a camel-colored suede jacket that flared out with the curve of her hips, and a maroon knit hat that underscored her wind-reddened cheeks. She had a purse over one arm and his umbrella in her other hand.

He gave her a gentle nod of acknowledgement. "Miss Daaé."

"I thought I'd try my luck here tonight." She smiled shyly and held out the umbrella. "I came to return this."

He rose and took it from her, careful not to let their fingers touch this time. "Thank you," he said, "but that wasn't necessary."

"I don't mind, really. Thanks for letting me borrow it."

Even her speaking voice warmed him now. Suddenly unable to meet her gaze, he turned to lock up the playing cabin while he spoke. "What brings you out this way?"

"Oh, I walked from work."

He pocketed the building keys and angled his head toward her. "You walked all this way just to give me my umbrella?"

"It's only ten minutes." She pursed her lips coyly before adding, "If I'm honest, I couldn't pass up the chance to go up in a haunted bell tower on Halloween weekend."

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips, and he pushed past her before she could see, as though he'd meant to make for the staircase all along. "You should return tomorrow afternoon, then. Some of the graduate students are performing a concert." He glanced back to make sure that she followed.

She was grinning now. "A _spooky_ concert?"

"I expect."

In the stairwell, the clanging of their feet against the descending metal steps echoed so loudly that she had to raise her voice. "What time is the performance?"

"Four, I believe." He opened the door to the eighth floor, motioning for her to enter the hallway ahead of him, and together they walked to the elevator. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as they waited for the cab to travel up from the lobby. She was frowning now.

"I don't think I can make it," she said. "I'm getting my hair styled at five, and that would be cutting it close."

"Ah, well. There will be other such occasions."

They stood in silence until the elevator doors opened. Once inside, he felt that the burden of conversation fell to him now—if only to make up for their last meeting—and he scrabbled at the tidbits of information that she had fed him.

"Do you typically get your hair styled for Halloween?" The question came out more mocking than he'd intended. He steeled himself for her response.

To his surprise, however, Christine laughed. "I know, it sounds ridiculous. But I'm going to a fancy party and I just—" She'd taken her keys out of her pocket, and she toyed with them now. The pepper spray was there, he noticed, and he felt a stab of guilt in his chest. He ought to have offered to walk her to her destination the other night. He ought to offer tonight, too, but the thought of public exposure on a Friday night simply paralyzed him.

"So I used to wear costumes a lot, in college productions, and there was always something empowering about it. Like I could do and say things that I normally wouldn't, and people would attribute them to my character and not to me."

Unsure how he was meant to respond, Erik could only contribute an "mm" sound from the back of his throat to indicate that he was listening.

"I miss that," she confessed. "And I got invited to this fancy Halloween party, where people will be in suits and dresses with expensive masks and things, and I thought that it might be nice, for once, to just...be someone else." She looked up at him abashedly. "Sorry. That probably sounds weird."

"No, I quite understand," he replied, and he tapped one side of his mask with an index finger.

She looked panic-stricken. "Oh. Of course. I'm so sorry." He gave a slight wave of his hand, batting her words away. The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into the lobby.

"Does it make things difficult for you, then?" she asked on their walk to the entrance. "Your...situation?" She was clearly desperate to know more—who wouldn't have been?—but the less she knew, the better.

"It has in the past, yes, both the mask and the face beneath it. But I mostly keep to myself nowadays."

They had reached the door now. "If you ever had any great desire to go out, though..." Christine hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Well, now would be a good time for it. And tomorrow. When everyone is in costume."

He cocked his head. "Is that so? People dress up the night before Halloween?"

She nodded. "Lots of parties on a Friday night."

A man with a mask could certainly blend in on an occasion such as this. Erik blinked at her, considering, but she must have interpreted his silence as disinterest. She curled her fingers around the door handle and pulled. "I should be going, then."

"Wait." Instinctively, he reached out and grabbed her. She froze, staring down at where his broad hand circled her forearm entirely. He knew he ought to let go, but he was entranced by the solidity, the warmth, of another body within his grasp. It loosened something almost wild and desperate within him.

In reality, he likely had her locked in his grip for a few fleeting seconds, but it felt as though an eon had passed by the time he released her. "I, ah..." He swallowed. "Do you have a long walk ahead of you?"

"About twenty minutes. I live over on the west side."

Erik exhaled slowly. "I should have walked you home the other night," he confessed, "but I was too cowardly to do so. Please allow me to escort you tonight."

She shook her head and opened her mouth as if to protest, but one glance up at his face seemed to change her mind. "Okay," she said. "Thank you."

Outside, the air was crisp, and a breeze sent dry maple leaves skittering across the pavement. He wished he'd thought to grab his coat. Christine, however, seemed content, enough that the next several minutes of silence between them felt comfortable, and she began to hum quietly to herself. He didn't recognize the tune, but it hardly mattered.

After a childhood spent in the foster system, he wasn't sure he was qualified to identify what one would call "home"—but this felt like the closest he'd ever been, or ever would be, just here in her presence, with her voice. Her very existence soothed him. The wearied muscles in his neck and shoulders had begun to slacken.

"What was that you were humming?" he asked, once she'd tapered off.

"Oh!" She laughed sheepishly. "I didn't even realize I was doing it. Totally zoned out. Um...'Sally's Song,' from _The Nightmare Before Christmas._ " He noted how she went out of her way to step on a particularly crunchy leaf.

"Ah. I'm afraid I never saw that one."

"Really? I think you'd like it. Actually, you kind of remind me of—" She stopped.

"Of whom?" he prompted, but she shook her head.

"Never mind. It's dumb."

The silence returned, but more palpably this time. Erik grasped for words, anything that would prompt the further lilt of her voice, while also releasing him of obligation to converse. "You did theater, then?" was what he finally settled on. Her face brightened, and she launched into a recounting of her time at the university. Much of the history, he already knew from his internet research—but it was so much more vivid when it came from her lips. Until it wasn't.

She told him about her father's cancer, and about leaving school to help him in his final months—and then, suddenly, she was working at the bookstore. If there had been any intention of completing her education, she did not voice it. It was as though her aspirations had died along with her father.

"My house is that blue one up there," she said, gesturing, and his insides twisted: not only with regard to their impending separation, but also the light on upstairs.

His fingers flexed at his sides, the leather gloves suddenly too constricting. He'd never asked whether she was seeing someone; she'd never that indicated she wasn't. He should never have made an assumption, and yet he had. A technical error, he told himself, but that somehow made it all the more maddening, for he had never been prone to error and could certainly not afford such oversights going forward.

"Someone's home?" he asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

"Oh, just a renter. I'm on the first floor."

He'd scarcely had time to register his relief before Christine stopped in her driveway and turned to face him. "You were right," she said.

The admission made him start. "Pardon?"

"You were right. About my singing." She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, her head lowering as she crushed a leaf under her boot. "I'm terrified."

Momentum surged through him like fire, fierce and all-consuming. He needed to reach out, to grasp those doubts, to yank and tear and discard and _fix her_ as he was all too capable of doing, but for her sake he swallowed these painful urges and fumbled over a watered-down reply. "I'm...sorry to hear that."

Christine looked over at the house, and then across the way—anywhere but his face. "What you shook loose in that classroom," she said, "those emotions...I still had control then, mostly. But things are still buried. Here." She put a hand to her midsection. "I don't know what will happen if I let them out, and I can't—" Her jaw trembled, and she sucked in a quivering breath.

"Easy," he murmured. "Take your time."

"I'm not the same person I was four years ago. I can't bear the thought of rekindling my music only to realize that I don't have what it takes." She pursed her lips to keep the tears at bay. "That I don't have a spark anymore."

He kept his reply even. "No doubt everyone has a spark that can be ignited, somewhere, in one way or another." _Do not cave. She will find her own way, in time._

She looked right at him to ask, "Even you?"

Her tone was innocent enough, but her gaze was hard: a challenge. Something burned in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't have said whether it was anger or...something else. He struggled to formulate a response.

"I don't understand how," she continued, "but it's like you know what I need, long before I do. And I know you don't want to pursue voice instruction anymore, and I respect that, but would—" She exhaled shakily and pressed her eyes shut for a moment. "Would you still consider giving me lessons, on the side? I would pay you."

He peered down at her, this soft creature who moved so fluidly between darkness and light, and he simply could not muster the will to dismiss her out of hand. "I will consider it," he said.

Christine smiled that slight, self-effacing smile of hers, and she nodded, and he walked her the rest of the way to her door. She had the key in the lock, the door all but opened, when she turned to speak to him again.

"You should come to the party tomorrow."

He was so stunned that he could only blink in response.

"My friend Raoul—from the de Chagny family, those family friends I mentioned before?—he said I could invite whoever I wanted. It's at his brother's house, and he's pretty well off, so at the very least you can expect some amazing food and free booze." She threw Erik a half-joking smile, but his thoughts were racing in a thousand different directions and he could not even pretend to react, so she continued. "It's dressy. Raoul said most people don't even attempt a costume—just a mask, or little things like horns or wings or animal ears. But you have a suit, and a mask, so..." Another placating smile.

"I—ah—I'm not sure."

Her face only faltered in the slightest. "Sure. It's totally fine if you don't want to. I just thought—if you _did_ want to be somebody else for once..." She cleared her throat and finished unlatching the door. "I'll just text you the details, and you can feel free to ignore them. Or not. It would be...nice to see you there." Now safely inside, she smiled broadly again through the gap in the open door. "Thanks again for walking with me."

"It was my pleasure." His voice was hoarse. "Have a good night, Miss Daaé."

Erik walked all the way to the street corner, three houses down, before he allowed himself to look back at the house. There was a warm glow emanating from the bay window out front, and as he watched, Christine stepped into view to close the curtains. Her brown hair had been left tousled by the removal of her hat, and he had to stop himself from wondering how else she let her guard down when she was not with him. He had seen something in her—that flash of defiance, gone almost as quickly as it appeared—and he had a nagging feeling that she was more astute than she'd thus far let on.

But ah, there was the matter of the formal Halloween party! It would have been laughable in any other circumstance, the notion of him attending. He could easily count on both hands the number of ways in which it offended him. But a Halloween party hosted by the de Chagnys, at which he would remain conveniently disguised: how could he pass up such an opportunity for careful observation?

Now unencumbered by a walking companion, he launched into his usual long-legged strides, and he stalked back home to consider his options.

* * *

 _Next up: masquerade..._


	7. Of Masks and Men

A/N: Sorry for the long wait! There's a lot going on in this chapter, and I wanted to do it right. I also got waylaid by holiday craziness that has interfered with my usual writing times. I hope the length makes up for the wait.

* * *

On the evening of Halloween, Erik sat on the edge of the bed and forced himself to look in the mirror.

It was a ravaged face that stared back. If he squinted—enough to blur his vision—and tapped into the dark recesses of memory, he could almost see it as it once was: uninspiring, perhaps, but whole. Untouched. The layer of marred skin that lay there now looked like a weathered crust that, once scraped away, would reveal his original, unspoiled face beneath.

And there had been many times, in those early days of recovery, when he'd nearly convinced himself that such was the case. It was a matter of healing, he'd told himself. A matter of time.

The fact was, however, that his face—his actual, God-given face—had ceased to exist in those first few days following the fire. It had been cut away, that burned flesh, to stop his body's inflammatory response. To save his life.

Certainly, there had been attempts at restoration. But skin grafts were not miracle cures, and treatment had been slow and arduous. By the time he'd been taken into custody for the crime he did not commit, he'd had five surgeries, none of which were cosmetic. Imprisonment had put cosmetic surgery out of the question—but by then, he had given up on ever achieving some semblance of normalcy.

As the scar tissue had calcified, so, too, had his entire outlook.

He forced his eyes to refocus. _There is no happy ending in the cards for you_ : he would repeat it like a mantra if he had to. This was a reconnaissance mission, not a social outing. And certainly not a date.

He put on his mask and gloves, gathered the necessary accoutrements, and headed aboveground to call for a rideshare.

Phil de Chagny's home was tucked away among the wooded hills of the town's north side, an area largely unfamiliar to Erik given that it was notoriously wealthy. His driver dropped him off in the wide circle drive out front, and a suited man with an earpiece watched him enter through double doors that quivered with the vibrations from a distant, thumping bass.

So he would have to deal with security, then. Ah, well. He had anticipated no less for a family with so much at risk.

The foyer was dim, lit only by the dozen wrought-iron candelabras lining its walls. A dry-ice fog curled around his ankles. On a staircase that curved up to the second floor, leering jack-o'-lanterns flanked either side of every step. He spotted another pair of solemn-faced men, glaring anomalies with earpieces among the partygoers who flitted through, and he knew these stairs were out of the question for access to de Chagny's office.

No matter. It had been his good fortune to find the listing information for the house and property, still cached on several major real estate websites despite Phil de Chagny's purchase ten months prior: a sloppy oversight on the part of the seller's agent. With that listing were nearly fifty photos of the interior and grounds, as well as floor plan images.

He followed a trickle of guests toward the vast living room, where servers in black circulated trays of canapés and cocktails, but then kept walking: there was a back staircase next to the kitchen, likely meant for only tenants and staff.

On the way, he located a restroom and stashed his mask—a partial skull, made of latex—under the sink, behind a stack of fluffy hand towels. He replaced it with a cloth Deadpool mask from his pants pocket, one that he'd found at a 24-hour supercenter in the early morning hours. The skull was meant to be his persona for the evening, the one Christine Daaé would be aware of should they meet. If things went awry upstairs, then ideally, security would be searching for a man in a Deadpool mask instead.

No matter that he'd never _seen_ Deadpool. It would have to suffice.

Outside the bathroom, he spotted the stairs at the same time he spotted the security guard next to them. Instantly he spun on his heels, cursing under his breath. De Chagny's surveillance measures were bordering on excessive now. What had he walked into?

He strode back to the living room and snatched a cocktail from a tray, a hideous blood-red concoction that boiled over with a thick fog from what he assumed was food-grade dry ice. "Let the fog clear before you drink," cautioned a smiling server, as though the fog was the only barrier to drinking in a mask with no mouth-hole.

Ah, but perhaps he'd been retrieving the drink for his date! That would be far preferable to taking ownership of the vomitous red sludge himself. He pulled out his phone and faked a conversation as he rounded the corner, head down, to where the security guard was posted.

"Yes, dear," he said loudly. "Yes, I did get your drink, but I cannot seem to locate you." A pause. "Well, I wish you had been more specific. Honestly, I have no idea where I am now, and—" He collided forcefully with the guard and sent the red liquid splattering onto his suit. The man muttered a short chain of expletives as he surveyed the damage.

"Oh, sir, I apologize profusely. I can hardly see a thing in this mask. Might I get you a towel? Some club soda, perhaps?"

The guard waved him off irritably. "No, just leave it. I'll find a bathroom."

"I believe there is one down that way," Erik said, directing him to the farthest restroom he could think of. "Down that hall, a right, and then another right."

He waited until the guard had disappeared from view, and then he dropped the empty glass into a potted plant and launched up the stairs.

* * *

Christine should have expected the valet service at Phil's party. Nevertheless, it caught her off guard, reminded her of how out of her element she was. She walked into the soirée a timid and nervous wreck, afraid of tripping over her own two feet, if not the hem of her dress.

The chiffon gown was unlike anything she'd ever worn. She did not have the long legs or svelte frame that these long, flowy dresses seemed to demand, but she'd fallen in love with the color gradient, an inky blue that bled into purple at mid-thigh and then, gradually, into a soft, saturated rose-pink at the hem. It reminded her of twilight: that fleeting symmetry between light and dark, when everything was soft and magical. With the aid of professional alterations and a pair of strappy heels, she'd managed to make it work. And the ornate silver stars-and-moon mask, once she'd spotted it online, had been an obvious choice to pair with the dress.

Her hair had been straightened and pulled back into an elegant chignon, with soft strands left out to frame her face. The ensemble, combined with the professional hair and nails, had cost a small fortune—but she needed this. When had she last spent money on herself, anyway? She could hardly remember the last time she'd gotten a haircut, or bought a pair of jeans.

It was her first time dressing up since her college musical days, and in true clichéd form, she felt like a princess.

She'd done it for herself, but she had to admit that the prospect of Erik's attendance made it all the more worthwhile. A pang of nervousness lanced her stomach at the thought of his discerning eyes and mouth, his long-legged and brooding form. What was it about him that made her so desperate to win his approval?

Christine left her wrap at the coat check and walked toward the thrum of voices and heavy bass that reverberated throughout the house.

The first room she found was packed with cocktail tables and guests; servers wove among them with trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres held high. She moved to grab a cocktail until she saw that it was vibrantly red and emitting a thick fog, at which point the bar at the back became more appealing.

"Something sparkling, please," she told the bartender, "if you have it." As though he wouldn't. He rattled off three options, in fact, and as she waited for him to uncork and pour her selection, she turned to take in the splendor.

Everything in this room was black and ivory: ivory tablecloths with overlays of delicate black spiderwebs on the narrow hightop tables; bouquets of ivory roses, with black spiders perched on the blooms; ivory pumpkins swathed in sheer black lace. And working his way toward her, in a black naval officer's uniform, was Raoul.

He grinned and held up a hand in greeting. "I hope you're not drinking the red stuff," he said as he joined her at the bar. Behind the counter, the bartender handed her a champagne flute and flashed Raoul an acerbic glare.

"Sorry," Raoul said. "Just a whiskey for me, thanks." He turned to her as the bartender filled a rocks glass with ice. "I'm glad you could make it. You look amazing."

She smiled. "You cleaned up pretty well yourself, Captain." His double-breasted jacket boasted two columns of gleaming buttons, and the cuffs were trimmed with gold stripes. Completing the ensemble was a white-capped naval hat with black visor.

He took his drink from the bartender and raised it in her direction. "I thank you, my lady. Shall we check out the ballroom?"

She blinked. "There's a ballroom?"

Raoul grinned and offered her an elbow. "Come on, Daaé."

The room was amply sized, enough for a dance floor packed with couples and a platform that supported a live band. At the mic, a tiny blonde in a scarlet mini dress belted out a cover of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Heads Will Roll." And overhead, filtered lights cast the ceiling in ominous shades of blue and purple, among which silhouetted bats were suspended from wires, poised in flight.

Once comfortably situated on the outskirts of the dance floor, next to the wall, Christine took a large gulp of her wine. "So your brother's really into Halloween, huh?"

"No more than any other occasion," said Raoul. "Any excuse to schmooze and impress. You know how it is."

She didn't, really. She was used to gatherings where music blared from an iPod at best and guests filled the fridge with six-packs, gatherings where the fare consisted of chips and salsa and maybe a frozen pizza heated at midnight to soak up the evening's libations. But as awkward as she felt, she was determined to take advantage of such over-the-top hospitality while she was here. At the very least, she'd have a pleasant buzz and a great tale to tell her coworkers tomorrow.

"Speak of the devil!" Raoul announced.

She looked up to find Phil skirting the edge of dance floor, his hand joined with that of the radiant dark-haired woman who trailed behind him. He was crisply suited, with no costume, whereas she was an _actual_ princess: a pink cloud, all soft lines and confectionery sweetness. Her dress was cut with a low back and a sweetheart neckline, with a skirt of layered tulle that made her seem to float across the floor, and in the hair curled and piled high atop her head there nested a silver tiara.

Phil had been eying the exit, but he stopped short when he spied his brother and Christine along the perimeter. "Well, hello!" he greeted her. "Nice to see you again, Christine."

"Thanks for letting me crash your party," she replied. "It's amazing."

"Nonsense. You're always welcome." He set a hand at the small of his date's back to move her in closer. It was such a small but intimate gesture, his fingers curling tenderly against exposed skin, that Christine felt as though she was intruding. "Though it's this lovely lady," he continued, "who I have to thank for all of this."

"Well, the party planner had a huge hand in it," replied the princess, beaming. She extended a hand. "Lisa Sorelli."

Christine returned the greeting and the introduction. "I saw you on the field the other week," she said. "You're a wonderful dancer."

"Oh, thank you!" Lisa replied. "We were on our way out for drinks; did you want to join us?"

The song was wrapping up, bleeding into a cover of "Toxic," and it was difficult to hear anything below shouting volume. Christine and Raoul exchanged eager glances. "Happily," she said, and they followed the pair back to the bar.

She kept a lookout for a masked and lanky shadow on the way, but she was starting to suspect that he wouldn't turn up. She could not imagine that someone so prickly and reclusive saw any merits in attending a Halloween party, even if he were to blend in for once.

The four of them stood and chatted among the crowded cocktail tables until one opened up, allowing them to set down their drinks and enjoy an assortment of canapes that Phil requisitioned. Christine found him as difficult to converse with as ever, but Lisa was a different story: she eagerly sought out Christine's interests and, once the topic of musicals came up, started discussing all of her favorites and her pilgrimages to Broadway, driving Raoul and his brother off into a side conversation.

"We've actually met a few performers at some of the parties that Phil's been invited to," Lisa informed her. "Just last month, actually, I flew out for one and we saw—oh, what was her name?" She tugged at Phil's sleeve until he looked over. "Who was the Broadway actress we met at the thing last month?"

"I can't remember. Patti something, I want to say?"

"Not Patti LuPone?" asked Christine.

He shot a finger gun in her direction. "That's the one."

"She was hilarious," Lisa added, and Christine could do nothing but gape in response.

Phil opened his mouth to speak again, but quickly closed it as he pulled a vibrating phone from his pocket. "I need to take this in my office," he said, frowning at the screen. "Excuse me."

Lisa offered a thin smile as he slipped away. "He's not always like this," she said. "It's just...been drilled into him, since childhood."

"Sure. I get it." Christine took a sip of wine: her second glass, disappearing quickly. "The burden of the de Chagny lineage, I guess." It was a weak argument; she knew very well that Raoul was nothing like his brother. But then, she supposed, he wasn't the firstborn, either.

Beside her, he snorted. "Yes, we're all so horribly afflicted," he muttered.

Lisa, mercifully, did not hear. "When Phil and I first started dating," she said, "he'd fly in on the weekends, no matter how busy I was. And if I had to pull an all-nighter, he'd order food and grab me coffee and give me neck massages." She smiled warmly as she stared into her glass. "He's busier lately, but he does what he can. It'll be easier after the spring, once I finish my master's degree and my work study."

"And dance team, and volunteer work," Raoul reminded her. "But I'm sure you'll find a way to be even busier in New York."

"Good lord," said Christine. "When do you sleep?"

"She doesn't; that's the secret. She's a cyborg."

Lisa waved him off. "Oh, you're one to talk, Mr. Law-School All-Star."

As Christine watched them banter about their respective schedules and commitments, she found herself longing for the days when she could relate. When she'd had ambition.

She tried not to think about how desperately she anticipated Erik's final thoughts on voice lessons. He'd been her one and only attempt to get back on track, and she didn't dare consider what would happen if he turned her away again.

* * *

He had come equipped with a small, slim roll of electrical tape should he need to block off a security camera, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that there were none on the second floor: not in the hallway, nor in the unlocked office.

A security force downstairs, yet no surveillance or protective measures where de Chagny presumably conducted business at least part of the time: what kind of operation was the man running?

The desk filing cabinet, at least, was locked. Erik withdrew and unraveled the last of his carefully concealed tactical items: a thin, cloth-wrapped bundle of assorted lock picks.

His gaunt fingers trembled as he extracted the first and most widely used of the tools. He had practiced with them at home for weeks now, but a controlled environment was never the same as the real thing. He could only hope that it wouldn't take as long as his most challenging rehearsals had.

He was, admittedly, not sure what he hoped to discover. It seemed safe to assume that the elder de Chagny son was carrying on his father's longstanding tradition of bribery. The issue was in the evidence: Erik had none, apart from his own word, and a fat lot of good that had done him before. If he could find just one thing—a check stub, a sticky note, _anything_ —that got him farther than he'd been the day before, then it would be easier to build a case based on more than just his word and happenstance.

Miraculously, he managed to jimmy the lock open within ten minutes, and he set to poring over de Chagny's papers.

None of what he found was sensitive material, let alone relevant to him. The words and pages began to blur together, spelling out nothing but a frustrating waste of time.

And then there it was—no guarantee of evidence, certainly, but a beacon of hope: the recent transcript of a single student athlete. A football player.

Ah, de Chagny. What need, exactly, did a hedge fund manager have for student transcripts? Erik smiled smugly to himself.

Approaching footsteps sounded just as he slipped the folded pages into his jacket. Swiftly, he shut the cabinet drawer and clambered under the desk to hide.

It was, decidedly, the worst place he could have chosen outside of plain sight. He was bound to be caught.

There were snippets of conversation now, a male voice speaking with intermittent pauses—a phone discussion, perhaps? The voice grew louder until he could finally make out the words as they were spoken in the doorway to the office.

"Look, you do whatever you want to do on your end, but I didn't have you call so I could get your blessing. I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to do it. I have to pay what they're asking."

A long pause followed. "Yeah, well, the FBI hasn't done shit. I can't wait around for them to get their heads out of their asses. Did Armand tell you I got another message?" There was a shuffle of shoes as the voice drew closer, deeper into the office. It had to be de Chagny.

With a stab of panic to his gut, Erik realized that he'd left his pick in the lock, and the remaining tools next to the cabinet.

"Well, this one mentioned Lisa," de Chagny continued. "Not by name specifically, but there was a reference threatening 'loved ones and dance captains.'" Another pause. "Yeah. No. Well, I made some last-minute calls and I've managed to have the house crawling with security tonight, but this can't be a thing, Richard. She can't get dragged into this."

The voice had traveled all the way to the side of the desk by now. Any farther, and the lockpicked drawer would be in view. Erik's pulse thundered in his ears as he considered his options: should he fabricate an excuse (what excuse could possibly work here?), or physically debilitate the other man just enough to escape?

"Jesus. We had a verbal agreement, not a blood oath. You keep holding out all you want, okay? But I'm going to give them what they want, and it isn't up for debate. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a party to host. One that you should haul your ass over to, in fact. Don't let those coaches keep you too long, alright?" One last pause. "Yeah. Okay. I'll look for you later."

There was a long moment of quiet, and then the footsteps retreated. Erik nearly wept with relief.

Downstairs, the security guard had blessedly not returned. Erik went back into the bathroom to swap out his mask for the second and final time, and he replaced his striped tie with the solid one he'd tucked into his pocket earlier.

He'd seen an industrial-sized trash bin just on the inside of the kitchen, and it was there that he disposed of the first tie, the lockpicking tools, the electrical tape, and the Deadpool mask, tugging down a piece of discarded plastic wrap to cover them.

His heart raced terribly as he walked back toward the crowds and the foyer: he'd done it. He'd sacrificed his sleep in order to plan and was now running on pure adrenaline, but it had paid off. He hadn't even run into Christine. He'd do best to slip away now, in fact, and pretend he was never here, so that no one could account for his presence.

But in his mind, he heard the warm, sweet voice that had invited him, saw the bright and baffling hope in her eyes as she'd spoken, and he faltered.

* * *

She recognized him immediately.

Of course, she'd been tangentially looking for him since she'd arrived. By that point, Phil had returned and swept Lisa off to greet newcomers. Though the wine had eased the flow of conversation between Christine and Raoul, his presence did not give her the strange little thrill that Erik's did. She'd begun to feel guilty, but still she let her eyes wander as she debated whether to stick around. Once again, she was not enough among this sort of company: not gregarious enough, not smart enough, not tall or thin or poised enough.

Suddenly the figure was there, in the doorway, displaying every telltale sign that it belonged to Erik.

It was the gaunt frame, and how he carried it: almost gawkishly predatory, an aberration among the crowd—like her—but too quietly fluid to draw attention. It was the spindly fingers, snug inside the black leather gloves that she'd grown accustomed to, and the way they flexed at his sides.

He wore a tailored black suit that emphasized his narrow waist and hips, and beneath it a slim black tie over a collared shirt of deep scarlet. A matching red square of cloth was tucked into the breast pocket. His mask was not the usual white one, but a leering ivory skull that ended with a row of teeth in front of his upper lip.

This far away, Christine could not make out his gaze through the shadows of the eye sockets, but she knew he'd seen her. The Adam's apple bobbed in his narrow throat, and he walked over to her table.

"Good evening." Erik's cool voice seemed to originate just beside her ear, despite the volume of the room.

"Hey! You made it!" She cringed, inwardly, at her unsuppressed enthusiasm. Beside her, Raoul's eyes darted between the pair of them. "This is my, uh, friend," she told him. "Erik."

"Raoul de Chagny." His extended hand met Erik's for a firm shake, and he gestured broadly at the other man's attire. "Help me out here: who are you meant to be?"

Erik blinked down at him, impassive. "Death."

"Aha, a modern twist! I like it." Raoul drained the last of his whiskey. "So how do you two know each other?"

Christine faltered, and she'd scarcely begun to fumble for a response when Erik offered his own: "I am her vocal instructor."

"Chris!" said Raoul, incredulously. "You didn't mention you'd gotten back into singing! That's fantastic."

She shrugged, the heat rising in her cheeks. "It's a fairly new development. I didn't want to jinx it."

"Well, that deserves a toast." Raoul peered into his empty rocks glass and frowned. "Back to the bar I go, then. Erik? Can I get you anything?"

"Thank you, but no."

"Chris? Another wine?"

She eyed the remaining few sips in her glass. "Nah, go ahead. I haven't decided what I want yet."

"Right. Back in a minute, then."

They watched him jog off to the bar, where a small line had formed now that the bartender had begun circulating an elaborate craft cocktail whose preparation involved setting the liquor on fire. With his hands stuffed into his pockets, Raoul began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Is he always this jaunty," Erik asked, "or is that the alcohol talking?"

Still glancing at Raoul, Christine smiled. "A bit of both, I think. He's like a puppy sometimes."

"Let us pray that he does not order the flaming beverage."

She laughed lightly, and then she fixed her eyes on the leering death's-head. "You said that you're my vocal instructor."

"I did."

"Present tense."

"Indeed."

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, and his lips pulled taut. "I suppose I ought to have no misgivings about one lesson a week," he said. "But it will be on a trial basis. And I will accept no compensation."

"But—"

"Those are my terms. You may take them or leave them."

She hesitated. He was just so frustratingly _mystifying_ , almost to the point of arrogance. In the short time she'd known him, however, she had yet to see him do or say anything without sound judgment behind it. "Fine," she said. "We can work out the specifics later, when we're not supposed to be enjoying ourselves."

"Are you not enjoying yourself?"

"That's…" Christine ran her fingertips up and down the stem of her glass, suddenly unable to make eye contact. "That's not what I meant."

"No? My apologies." Something in his tone, however, betrayed his innocence. Was it that obvious how uncomfortable she was? Or did he, once again, possess an unsettling ability to see right through her?

They shared an awkward silence as a passing server removed Raoul's empty glass. Desperate for something—anything—to say, she asked, "Do you dance?" What she expected to follow, she wasn't sure. The alcohol had loosened her lips.

"Only when coerced."

Of course. "A modern-day Mr. Darcy," she said, forcing a pinched smile.

But he was staring past her, toward the opposite side of the room, his jaw noticeably rigid. "On second thought," he said, snatching up her hand, "I am suddenly inclined to investigate the ballroom. Join me?" Without waiting for a response, he started for the hallway, pulling her behind him.

"I—but—" She whipped her head back to check on Raoul, but she'd already lost sight of him. She should protest, at least go back to tell him where she was headed, but Erik was moving at a breakneck speed, seemingly propelled by some sense of urgency that she couldn't explain.

Besides. The fact of the matter was, a man wanted to dance with her. Erik, the non-dancer, wanted to dance with her. The thought sent warmth curling down to her toes, and she resigned herself to following him.

* * *

He berated himself the entire way to the ballroom. Could he not have come up with a better excuse to escape? But really, what else was there to do at these confounded social events? And though he had planned for several possible factors and outcomes here tonight, not one of them had involved the appearance of the county prosecutor who had sent him to prison.

He should have anticipated it, though. They always ran in a coven, did they not, these people of power and the business moguls who kept them there?

Erik could not have said which emotion had gripped him more strongly once he spied her sharp blonde bob and wire-rimmed glasses: fear, anger, revulsion. But it was his survival instinct that compelled him to move. Perhaps she might never have recognized him, but that was not a risk he was willing to take.

Now, however, he found himself pulling a woman into a crowded ballroom just as the band launched into a sultry rendition of "I Put a Spell on You." He swallowed and looked down at Christine, overcome by a sort of temporary paralysis.

She simply smiled that angelic smile of hers. "Come on," she said, tugging gently at his hand. "You'll survive."

He let her lead him onto the dance floor, all but closing his eyes as she waded deep into the sea of couples. It was better, he told himself, that they be shielded from onlookers—but he could feel the crowd pressing in on him. His breaths came faster, shallower; his face was aflame.

Then her left hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he suppressed a shudder for an entirely different reason. Still, her touch grounded him. He loosely curled his own fingers around her waist.

The mechanics of slow dancing were easy enough; he had seldom struggled there. No, it was the forced intimacy that he loathed: the awkward silences, and the perceived need to fill them; the proclivity of his dance partner to more closely examine his features; and, on rarer occasions, the heart-hammering anxiety of being in such close proximity to another person.

At present, his heart was beating a quickstep.

This close, he could smell the crisp perfume of her hair products, could study the faint highlights of blonde and red at her scalp. He had a better view of her intricate half-mask, which had flourishes and stars cut into it, as well as a crescent moon of silver filigree that curled upward to rise above her head.

He'd initially recognized her by her posture and shorter stature, by her rounded face and chestnut hair, by the broad curve of her hips. Had he looked for some telltale sign in her attire, he would have missed her entirely.

She wore a one-shoulder gown of light, airy chiffon. The back of the dress, above the skirt, comprised four strips of blue fabric that converged from different angles to connect at the shoulder strap. The small of her back was bare, as was the skin between the diagonal bands.

She had so far struck him as modest and assuming, and to see so much of her skin exposed, so tender and accessible—it unseated something within him. He resented it, yet he was drawn to it.

His mind flicked back to the charming, costumed man who had been at her side when he'd spotted her, and irritation flared up hot in his breast. "How is it that you know Mr. de Chagny?" he found himself asking.

"Oh, the de Chagnys were family friends, some years ago. We spent a summer with them, when we stayed at the lake house I mentioned. He and I have been catching up lately."

"I apologize," Erik said. "I should have inquired before I whisked you away: are the two of you...together?"

She shook her head. "It's never been like that between us."

He responded with only a curt nod, but every rigid muscle that had coiled within him began to unspool at her words.

They swayed in silence for a few moments before Christine nodded in the direction of the lead singer. "She has a lovely voice."

"Yours far surpasses it."

She flashed him a disapproving look, but her eyes glittered. "I wasn't fishing for praise, you know."

"Regardless, it was worth noting."

She went quiet, and they carried on dancing. When she spoke again, her voice had a faraway quality to it. "Do you ever feel," she asked slowly, "like you're only watching this life, and not meant to be a part of it?"

"I do not quite follow."

"Like...like maybe you're supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else? But instead you're stuck, watching everyone else do what they're meant to do, like a ghost caught between worlds." Christine let out a short, derisive laugh and shook her head. "Never mind. It's dumb."

"No." Erik's hand twitched of its own volition, prompting her to look up sharply. "No, I quite understand the feeling. It is...terribly lonesome."

She gave him a sad smile. "Yes. It is."

They did not talk for the rest of the song, but she began to edge closer, until their torsos were nearly touching. Though her grip remained loose, his tightened in response. The bass thrummed in his chest, the electric guitar rang in his ears, and his thoughts seemed to separate from his body, unable to process such physical contact.

When the song ended, he couldn't move, and she was slow to release him. She lifted her chin to regard him with wide, questioning eyes.

"I..." The inside of his mouth felt papery as he spoke. "I should leave."

* * *

"I should leave."

"Oh." How swiftly those three little words deflated her spirits. She reined in her disappointment enough to reply, "I'll walk you out, then."

As she turned to lead him off the dance floor, she felt a leather glove—now warmed by her own palm—at the small of her back, hovering, the most feather-light of touches. Her breath caught in her chest.

They made their way through the hall and into the foyer, where the sound of Raoul's laughter caught her attention. He was leaning with his shoulder against the wall, one leg crossed casually over the other, and grinning—more flirtatiously than she'd ever seen him—at the man who held him in conversation. It gradually dawned on her that she knew that man, too: his boyish voice and slight frame and tufts of straight, dark hair that tapered like prongs in every direction.

"Darius?"

His head whipped around to reveal the thick-rimmed glasses and round, tan face that she'd been coming to know. He flashed her a broad grin. "Christine! Hi!"

She looked from Darius to Raoul and then back again. "How do you two know each other?"

"We, ah, just met," said Raoul. His eyes bore the glassy sheen of significant alcohol consumption, and his sheepish expression had "smitten" written all over it. "How do _you_ two know each other?"

"Darius is my tenant. He's renting the second floor of my house." She just barely had the presence of mind to introduce him to Erik; afterward, she asked, "You must know Phil, then?"

"Yeah, but...uh...more in a work capacity."

"He's a police detective," Christine informed the other two men.

Beside her, Erik tensed. "Is it work that brings you here?" he asked.

Darius shifted his weight, his dark eyes failing to meet anyone else's. "I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind. I'm here with my partner, though. Work partner!" he added quickly, gaze flitting toward Raoul. "In fact, I should go find Khan before he assumes I've abandoned him."

Christine felt the brush of soft leather against her arm. "I really must leave," Erik said to her. "I thank you for the invite, and for the company. I will be in touch regarding our lessons."

He was gone before she could give him a proper goodbye. As he slipped out the front door, she heard a male voice call out, "Erik!" from the mouth of the hallway. She watched, confused, as dark-haired, brown-skinned man in a well-cut suit jogged across the foyer and out the door behind him. He returned only a few seconds later, looking defeated.

"Khan!" Darius flagged him down with a wave.

The man walked over to them, rubbed at the dark stubble that lined his jaw. He had thick eyebrows and a strong, sharp nose, and though there was an edge of distinguished gray that followed his hairline, he was objectively quite handsome. In the round of introductions that followed, he identified himself as Detective Nadir Khan.

Raoul excused himself to the restroom then, and Darius turned solemn. "What was that about?" he asked Detective Khan. "Was that him?"

Khan nodded. "I lost him, but I'm almost certain that he heard me."

"How do you know Erik?" Christine asked.

The two men exchanged glances. "We have a bit of a shared history," he replied. "May I ask how you know him?"

"He's my voice instructor. We just started lessons."

The detectives looked at each other again, and her ignorance of the matter at hand grew more frustrating with every passing second.

"Miss Daaé," said Detective Khan, "it seems we need to talk."


	8. Incendiary

"Miss Daaé, it seems we need to talk."

The pit of Christine's stomach roiled at Detective Khan's cautionary tone, at the unsettling reminder of how little she knew about the masked man who called himself Erik.

Erik. _He never even gave you his last name_.

"Unfortunately, this is not the place to discuss such sensitive material," Khan continued. "Would you be able to come by the station tomorrow?"

She hesitated. "Isn't there anything that you can tell me in the meantime? It's going to keep me up all night, not knowing."

Khan exhaled slowly, thick eyebrows knitting as he considered her request. Darius piped up. "We could go to the house, meet in my apartment. I don't think we're going to make any headway here, not at this point."

After a pause, his partner nodded. "All right. We'll head out now, Miss Daaé, but please take your time."

Khan started for the door, but Darius turned and caught her wrist, his eyes alight. "If that friend of yours happens to ask about me," he said, "give him my number, will you?"

And she did not miss the way Raoul's face fell when he returned to find her alone, nursing her drink. Still, he rallied to flash her his trademark grin. "Well. At least one of you waited for me."

"They had to leave," she reported. "Some sort of urgent work thing."

"Sure, sure, I understand." He rubbed absently at the back of his neck. "So it occurs to me that I have yet to see where you live…"

"Oh my God, Raoul, I can just text you his info."

Another, broader grin spread across his face as she pulled out her phone. "Have I mentioned how happy I am that you're back in our lives, Christine Daaé? You're a—a shining beacon, among a sea of wallets! God, I loathe these people."

"Alright, pal," she said, patting him on the arm. "You're slurring a bit there. Let's go sit and grab some food, okay? Maybe some water?"

"Yes, mother."

It was another half hour before she left him with an acquaintance on the sofa, hydrated and stuffed with hors d'oeuvres. She'd cited her Sunday bookstore shift as a reason to head out, intending to say goodbye to Phil and his girlfriend first.

"Don't bother," Raoul had said. "He got another call. He'll be spending most of the night upstairs in his office, I'll bet."

Conscience would not let her leave without at least trying, however, and she set off in the direction of the crowd. She'd barely walked ten paces before she collided with a puff of pink tulle that emerged from the bathroom to her left. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" she said, reaching out to steady the other woman. Her hand found the tanned arm of Lisa Sorelli, eyes red and puffy, looking somehow panicked at being found.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Christine asked.

Lisa sniffed. "Oh, yeah. I mean, Phil has to spend the rest of the night on 'urgent business,' but that's nothing terribly surprising, right?" She forced a wan smile, and her lower lip trembled. "Success isn't free, and all that."

"Still, it has to be disappointing."

Something soft and sad flickered across Lisa's face, but then she lifted her chin back to its lofty, swanlike position as though to slough off that moment of weakness. "So where were you headed?" she asked. "Want some company?"

"I, ah, was about to leave, actually. I have to work tomorrow." At the sight of Lisa's obvious disappointment, she hastened to add, "But hey, my friend is going to be in a play with the civic theater next week. I don't suppose you'd want to come?"

Lisa's face brightened. "I'd _love_ that!" she said, with a gleeful clap of her hands. "It's a date."

* * *

He was a damned fool.

He'd been too careless, too public. It did not matter that he'd managed to avoid his old acquaintance; Khan would tell her everything now, and she'd never want to see him again.

He watched the party guests leave from where he lay in wait: crouched behind a thick tree trunk, in the wooded lot beside de Chagny's house. It was cold, and demeaning, but he could not call for a ride and risk being seen until they were gone.

The detectives emerged first. Khan looked much the same as Erik remembered: a bit more silver creeping into his dark hair and stubble, perhaps, but otherwise no change in his trim physique to suggest the passage of time. The younger man was new: taller, lankier, somehow gawkishly good-looking. His face was soft and earnest, like Christine's. It stood to reason that she would take him on as a tenant. Good begot good, did it not?

Somehow, Erik's bitter solitude had also begotten such goodness. How could she be so persistent? She was not acting purely out of self-interest at this point, it seemed. In fact, he was beginning to think that she actually _liked_ being around him, God help her. Not that it mattered now.

It was at least another half hour before she emerged from the house, the soft, twilit chiffon swishing at her ankles. The younger de Chagny was soon to follow. The pair were all smiles while they chatted and waited for the valet to bring her car around, and before she slid in to drive, she hugged him fiercely.

Jealousy, hot and fierce, lanced Erik's chest once more. It should have been him escorting her out. Would she have hugged him, too?

He could still feel the warm weight of her hand on his shoulder.

He thumbed at the stolen document in his jacket lining as he watched her drive away, but even that hard-earned victory could not quite supplant the hollow ache she left behind.

* * *

Detective Khan let Christine into the upper apartment. She followed him into the kitchen, where Darius was brewing a pot of coffee. It was strange to be in this part of the house again; nearly every furnishing remained as she'd left it, yet the space felt oddly foreign now.

The detective took a seat at the little round table in the breakfast nook, in the chair that had once been her father's. As had been her habit, she sat in the chair opposite.

The kitchen was still sparse, the only signs of life a bunch of bananas on the counter and a photo taped to the fridge. The picture was of an older man and woman standing on a bridge, both squinting slightly into the sun as they balanced red bicycles beside them. There was such a height disparity between the two that it might have been comical, to some; but it reminded Christine of her own frame next to Erik's, and for some reason, the thought warmed her.

"Your parents?" she asked, gesturing.

"Hmm?" Darius stopped filling a sugar bowl long enough to glance over. "Oh, yeah, I took that in Hamburg last year. They were so attached to those bikes."

"Hamburg, Germany?"

He nodded. "Where my dad is from."

"And your mom?"

"Seoul. They met here on campus as students."

"No no no," Khan interrupted, grinning. "Tell her the _full_ story."

Darius returned the sugar to the cupboard and sighed. "They met in a class on Ancient Mesopotamia," he said, "and their first 'date' was actually a study date to review the Persian Empire. More specifically, King Darius I."

Christine gasped and cupped a hand to her mouth, delighted. "Your namesake!" she said. "Ohh, that's the cutest thing I've ever heard."

"Yeah, well, you're not the one saddled with the name. Coffee, anyone?"

"Please," said Detective Khan, while Christine declined in favor of water, helping herself to the tap.

Darius filled a blue ceramic mug and set it in front of his partner, along with the sugar bowl and a spoon. She watched Khan palm the chipped mug—her father's favorite—as he heaped sugar into the coffee, and for a flickering moment, he morphed into someone shorter, paler: her father, sipping at his morning brew as he devoured a novel, usually when he needed to be grading or preparing for the day's lecture.

"Miss Daaé?" Detective Khan had ceased stirring and was studying her now.

She cleared her throat, blinking back the tears that had begun to form. "Yes. Sorry. Um, just Christine, if you don't mind."

"In which case, please feel free to call me Nadir."

Darius plunked down a mug for himself and joined them at the table. "Okay," he said. "Let's get this over with." He deferred to his partner with a look, and Nadir sighed.

"I'll just come out with it, then," he said. "As of this month, we are investigating Erik for extortion."

Mid-sip, Christine nearly dropped her glass. "I'm sorry?"

"We've been made aware of at least three prominent local figures who have received anonymous messages, all on the same day, threatening sustained malware attacks unless they pay a large sum in cryptocurrency*."

She blinked. "Can't the threats be traced? Or the account?"

He shook his head. "The demands were sent as untraceable text messages, and forensics can't track the currency until someone tries to convert it to real money, by withdrawing."

"Then what makes you think it's Erik?"

"Ah, where do I begin?" Nadir inhaled slowly, while Darius looked on in silence, sipping at his coffee. "When I first met Erik—maybe four years ago?—he was serving time in prison."

Seconds passed before Christine realized that she was gaping. She closed her mouth, but her stomach continued to turn somersaults.

"I had some work that brought me to the prison often," he went on, "and when word reached some members of a crime syndicate that I'd put behind bars, they put out a hit on me."

He unfastened the top few buttons of his blue collared shirt, pulling it open to expose his left shoulder and collarbone. A ragged scar, thick and dusky pink, cut through the tan skin from shoulder to sternum. "This," he said, "is the reason why the prison janitorial crew is no longer allowed wooden mop handles. Break one, and you've got yourself a shank."

She cringed, and his mouth twisted into a wry smile as he buttoned up the shirt. "That wasn't the worst of the scars, I'm afraid. But my assailant never managed a fatal blow."

"What stopped him?" Christine asked, eyes wide.

"Erik. He was on the same work crew, and I doubt the prison guards would have made it in time otherwise." Nadir took a long sip of his coffee, cupping the mug with both hands as he set it down and stared markedly into the liquid. "So yes, I owe him my life."

"You owe him your life," she repeated slowly, "but you're investigating him for extortion?"

He shrugged. "Demands of the job, I'm afraid. But there's more." Darius had gotten up, and Nadir waited for him to refill both mugs before he continued.

"I started to visit with him after that, first to offer my gratitude and then to give him some reprieve. He was already an outsider on account of his face; he wasn't allowed a mask then. And his intelligence—there was no match for it among his inmates. Not that I claim to have been one, but he at least had to put in some effort to beat me at chess." He let out a short laugh before his expression sobered. "After he stopped a hit on a detective, though, there were...consequences. Enemies. Prison life was especially unkind to him."

Christine tried to picture Erik in any of the prison scenarios she'd glimpsed in film or on TV, but the images were incongruous. Still, her heart hurt for him.

"I like to think that we became friends," Nadir went on. "Fairly good ones, even. But he was adamant that he'd been not only wrongly convicted, but also framed, and he wanted me to look into it. He had nothing concrete, though: no evidence, no leads, only speculation. There was no basis for further investigation, and when he was released, I told him so. He hasn't spoken to me since."

She frowned. "I fail to see how any of this points to extortion."

"Ah. Well. He believed he'd been framed by a small contingent of university affiliates, and it just so happens that there's a fair bit of overlap with those who are currently being extorted."

"Phil de Chagny," she replied, as realization dawned. Khan nodded, and she reached back into recent memory, to the suspicions that Raoul had confessed. "And then...the athletic director, Richard Firmin? And Provost Moncharmin?"

Both men looked at her incredulously. "I...heard some things," she explained. "At a football game, in the de Chagnys' stadium suite. All of those men were there. But do you really think Erik is capable of all of that?"

"Well, that's the thing," said Nadir, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "The feds are on the case now, and they don't think so."

"They've been looking at larger crime syndicates," Darius added.

Christine frowned. "So you're just, what? Going rogue? Based on a hunch?" Both men laughed quietly, which only made her glower more.

"No, nothing quite so dramatic," said Nadir. "They won't investigate my lead unless I provide more compelling evidence, but they don't object to me looking for said evidence. They don't know him like I do, Christine. He's very smart, and _very_ resentful."

"Smart enough to mastermind a cybercrime?" she asked dubiously.

He smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Nope. But as of this weekend, that works in our favor. Our mutual acquaintances decided _not_ to pay the ransom, and the extortionist responded with only a higher demand, plus some vague threats to life and limb."

"And that's...good?"

"There's no reason to do that—not when you could fire a warning shot, so to speak. It's what most cyber-extortionists do: encrypt some of the victims' data to show they mean business, then refuse to decode it until the ransom is paid."

"But if you're not actually a capable cybercriminal," Darius piped up, "then you're not _able_ to do that."

"Which points to an outlier," Nadir concluded. "Suddenly, the FBI is much more interested in whatever information I have."

What he had, it turned out, was nothing. Erik was paid as a contractor and not a university employee, so employment records were almost nonexistent. They'd managed to obtain search warrants for his work computer and phone records, but the hard drive and browser history had been clean; the sparse call records unhelpful; the text messages nonexistent because the carrier stored them for only days at a time.

They had also monitored his listed address: an apartment that he never seemed to enter or exit. Yet the landlord insisted that the rent was paid promptly, each month, in cash.

Dissuaded by their lack of evidence, the judge had refused to issue further warrants. Christine could hardly blame her, and in fact harbored more anxiety and resentment with every second of the detectives' account. By the time she was able to get in a word, her mouth had begun to dry out. "Why are you telling me all of this?" she asked.

Deep down, though, she knew. The muscles in her abdomen knotted and contracted.

Nadir planted both elbows on the table, and leaning forward to pin her with sharp green eyes. "So that you understand just how desperate we are when we say that you, as far as we can tell, are the only person with whom Erik is willing to engage."

She stared back, unblinking. "That—that can't be possible. Can it?"

But their faces said otherwise, and Darius shrugged sympathetically. "He seems determined not to exist, for the most part. But now, with you in the picture..." He looked anxiously to his partner for support.

"We think that we might have some success with a good, old-fashioned wiretapping," Nadir finished, and they both went silent to await her reaction.

Her heart seemed to drop into her stomach, the entire thing bottoming out so that she was left with no feeling below her neck, only a fleeting paralysis as she processed their implications. "Me?" she finally asked. Her brain and tongue would not sync up to form other words.

"It would require very little effort on your part," said Nadir. "You'd wear a concealed mic and battery pack to your lessons so that we could listen in. And at least one of us would be close by to intervene, should you ever feel threatened."

"And what—" Her throat stuck, rendering her voice hoarse, and she swallowed. "What kind of information are you hoping he'll tell me?"

"Anything. Where he lives, what he does when he's not working, any interactions he's had with persons of interest."

Darius stepped in closer to set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He had such bright, kind eyes: the kind that would be difficult to turn down. "We know it's a lot to ask," he said. "You can take some time to think about it, if you want."

"You haven't even told me what he was in prison for," she said, and Nadir's mouth pulled taut.

"Arson."

And then she remembered.

It was why the name Erik, with a K, had stood out to her. She had seen his name and face all over the news. First he'd been the victim of a severe but contained fire on campus, having only narrowly survived his injuries. Someone had taken up a collection for the expenses of what was sure to be a long and arduous recovery.

But law enforcement and media had worked quickly. Within days, a very different picture of him had been painted: a former assistant professor, fired for undisclosed reasons, who had raised hell within the department for his termination. He was also, it seemed, the primary suspect in what investigators believed to be a deliberate act of destruction.

Had Erik not been confined to a hospital bed, Christine would have feared for her father's safety. Charles Daaé, she'd learned, had been the one hired to replace him.

He had pled not guilty, with the defense relying heavily on the fact that he'd nearly died. He was a wholly intelligent man; why put himself at risk?

But the evidence stacked against him was overwhelming: a clear motive. His inability to recall why he'd been in the office. Indications that the source of the fire, an older model of space heater, had been turned on at the time of the incident. (Why, the prosecutor had challenged, would anyone run a space heater on such an unseasonably warm day?) The presence of an accelerant, likely gasoline, in the carpet. And most damning: an empty gas can, recovered from a trash bin in a supply closet down the hall, that bore his fingerprints.

He had been convicted and sent to prison for five years, and that had been that. Or so she'd thought.

Suddenly, Nadir's suspicions did not seem so farfetched.

"I remember him now," she said hoarsely. "The mask, then—it's because of the burns?"

He nodded. "I can't say that this comes without risk, of course, but I don't believe that Erik would ever intentionally cause you physical harm."

"And we'd compensate you for your trouble," Darius added. "I'm not sure exactly how much yet, but we'll get something for you. Oh! And that parking ticket you were telling me about? Gone."

Nothing they could offer her would override the fear and anxiety that now seized her body and snatched the air from her lungs, so that her breaths went shallow and the entire room fell away from her periphery. It didn't matter, though, because she knew she had to do it.

She had to do it for Darius and Nadir, or she'd never be able to face them again. She had to do it for Phil and the other men, and for Raoul and Lisa by extension, so that their lives might be less miserable, their friends and family safe. (She could not unsee Lisa's misery, and she had to believe that Phil's increasing distractions were influenced by this turn of events.) And she had to do it for her father, whose ethics would have made him volunteer in a heartbeat.

But more than anything, the ties to Erik were too compelling to dismiss as coincidence. It was clear that the detectives' every hope rested on her now, and she'd never live with herself if she didn't help them.

"Okay," she said shakily. "Tell me what to do."

* * *

Nine o'clock on a Thursday. He played the Westminster Quarters, then nine deep tolls of the hour, all on the long batons laid out before him like narrow wooden teeth. Then he locked up the playing cabin to begin his nightly rounds, a walkthrough of every tower floor, starting with the observation deck.

With every passing minute, he resisted the urge to remove a glove and check his phone.

She had texted him on Sunday, the day after the party. _Sorry to see you leave last night_ , she'd written. _Hope we can still meet for lessons._

It perplexed him still. What reason would Khan have to withhold information from her? But then, the man had always possessed a wearying sort of sympathy for Erik's plight. Regardless, he hadn't responded. He couldn't trust her, nor anyone else.

She'd texted again the next day, though. _We had a binding verbal contract_ , the message had said, _and I'm going to hold you to it_. He'd had to suppress a smile then, but he still hadn't caved.

And then yesterday, she had sent him only an image: a photo of herself, puppy-eyed and pouting at the camera. It had so caught him off guard that a dry laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it. He'd left that one alone, too—she'd have to stop trying eventually, right?—but not before saving the file to his phone. It remained there now, with her messages. Taunting him.

He ensured that the ninth floor was secure, and then he moved down to the eighth.

He emerged from the stairwell to find faint music drifting down the hall: slow, gentle piano, and a woman's singing voice. He _felt_ , just as much as heard, that it belonged to her.

He was reminded of what she had said as they danced at the party: that she was a ghost, caught between worlds. He saw it now, saw himself moving as a wraith among the shadows of the others who worked and studied and lived in this building, this campus, this city. In their physical world, he was insubstantial. He did not exist.

Yet here was Christine Daaé, with her voice and her friends and her sweetness, showing up to impede him at every turn. She actually _saw_ him, as though she had a sixth sense. Or—could it be?—as though they existed on the same forsaken plane.

He surrendered, and he let the music reel him in.

Her back was to the door where she sat at the piano, so he could not make out her hands or her face: only her voice, sweetly understated, slowly wrapping him in a gauzy cocoon. The well-worn baby grand provided only the barest accompaniment, little more than a quiet chord progression.

It wasn't until she sang the chorus that he recognized the song. It must have been twenty years old, but he remembered it, remembered when it had topped the charts and when the radio stations had played it until it became impossible not to know the lyrics. Even then, he hadn't minded it. But as with most things from its time, it had receded from his memory, and he wasn't sure whether it held up now.

No, that wasn't true. Here and now, in the way that Christine sang it, it most assuredly held up. Perhaps everything did, when in the right hands, and hers was the Midas touch of vocal performance.

He waited until the end of the song to announce his presence. He did not want to startle her, but he could see no way around it. He lifted his knuckles to knock on the propped-open door, and she started, whirling around on the bench.

"If I did not know any better," he said, "I would think you were stalking me."

"I'm sorry." She stared down at her hands as they plucked at the hem of her shirt. "I was starting to feel guilty about singing at home, with my neighbor upstairs, so I sort of...snuck in? I thought maybe, if it was later at night..." She trailed off, lifting her gaze to meet his.

He took a measured step into the room and clucked his tongue, taking no small delight in the way her eyes widened as he said, "Lies do not become you, Miss Daaé."

"I—what?"

"This seems a terribly convenient excuse to turn up in my building after your texts have gone unanswered."

Christine's jaw relaxed, her expression turning pointed. "Then maybe you should have replied."

"Maybe you should learn to take a hint."

She let out an exasperated squawk of frustration, rising from the bench to move a step closer. "What is it that you're afraid of? Even Detective Khan thought the lessons were a good idea."

Erik's chest constricted even as he moved forward another step. "Yes, well, he never did know how to mind his own business. Did he tell you how we know each other?"

She shook her head. "Just that you'd been friends and had a falling out. He said I shouldn't hold it against you."

"How magnanimous."

She was suddenly close now, enough that he could have reached out and touched her. Her acidic expression had dissolved, leaving her face pale and soft and open; her eyes unnerved him with their tenderness.

"You can't keep doing this," she said quietly. "Stringing me along. I know it's hard for you, being around other people, but I'm not a threat. I just want to enjoy music again. Don't you?"

Her words flattened him. He had not been enjoying it, had he? Not really, not since before...everything. And, God help him, she made him want it so badly now.

He stepped in even closer, so close that he could smell her hair and hear her sharp intake of breath, and then he brushed past her to reach the piano.

"I recognized the piece you were singing," he said. He moved the bench to accommodate his length of leg and took a seat. "Your interpretation was...compelling."

Christine came to stand beside the instrument. "The song's a bit dated, but I like it. I thought that maybe it just needed to be simplified."

"Mm. Music is almost paradoxical in that way, is it not? A work reflects the unique styles and conventions of its time—but strip it down to its marrow, and it suddenly becomes timeless." He flexed his fingers over the keys. "Again, I commend your performance, but might I offer a few suggestions? Perhaps this can be the halfway point at which we meet."

She blinked in surprise. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course."

As they proceeded, her expressions seemed to be almost at war with themselves—teetering somewhere between anxiety and relief—and he thought he understood exactly what she was feeling.

* * *

*This was meant to reference a well-known cryptocurrency and payment system that rhymes with "zitcoin," but apparently FFN will censor any mention of the name! Fun!

A/N: Special thanks to phantom-of-the-keurig for putting up with months of my law- and crime-related questions, especially over the last several days! Next up: Christine goes undercover.


	9. Touch

When Christine watched Erik's hands, she could almost believe him guilty of his crime.

Currently, they played her accompaniment on the baby grand. But away from the piano, just as much as at it, every movement of theirs appeared methodical, precise. She could see them engineering the crime scene just so: positioning an ancient space heater near a stack of papers and books, feeding a frayed rug corner into its grate, dribbling an even trail of gasoline around the area.

She could _not_ , however, picture those hands without gloves. She suspected that he hadn't always worn gloves, of course, and that they only served to cover his burn scars—but why would he not have worn a pair to handle the evidence? It was careless, and she didn't see him as such. But perhaps he'd been made wiser by time and experience—and by prison.

As she sang a phrase to its conclusion, he lifted one of those slender hands from the keys to hold up two fingers, his signal to pause. "Be careful not to let the resonance degrade, Miss Daaé," he said. "Try that one again."

She nodded her understanding, but she'd already anticipated his critique. It was only their second lesson—and an unofficial one at that, since she'd shown up unannounced—but she'd already begun to learn his tells. She'd noted the exact moment when his thin lips had pursed ever so slightly. It was always the smallest pull of mouth or jaw to indicate those areas where he sought improvement. He would wait for a convenient time to interject, if he did so at all before the conclusion of the piece or excerpt, but it didn't matter: by then, she'd already seen and considered his reactions.

He was far less effusive with his praise, as she would have expected of anyone in his position. But when he was pleased, he would often respond with the slightest nod of his head or, more rarely, the faint tug of a smile at one corner of his mouth. The sight of either would plant a seed of warmth in the pit of her stomach, one that took root and curled outward until she could feel it in her toes.

It was a nod that he gave her now, as she sang the phrase again. His dark, slick hair shone under the fluorescent lights. It was the only thing remotely soft on that figure of edges and bone.

"Better," he said. "Do keep your ribcage elevated, though; you're slipping."

Christine adjusted her posture accordingly. It was bad enough that she was buckling under the weight of her anxiety; she couldn't let him see the evidence of it. She wasn't even wearing the wire yet, for heaven's sake.

She'd convinced Darius and Nadir to let her first approach him without it. She'd suspected from the first unanswered text that she'd have to see him in person, to make a case for herself, and she could hardly do that without the threat of exposure hanging over her.

The invented need for a rehearsal space had been all her doing. She'd had little doubt that Erik suspected Nadir of revealing information—but to contradict that in a text, unbidden, would have been far too suspicious. Thankfully, she'd managed to work it into their discussion organically. The next step was to wedge herself into his routine and develop a more conversational relationship, provided that she kept her cool long enough to secure a next lesson.

 _Pull it together, Daaé._

She got through the impromptu session without further incident, but he remained as cool and aloof as ever. Nadir's words echoed in her head: _you are the only person with whom Erik is willing to engage_. Yet here he was, acting as though he barely tolerated her presence. But when he wrapped up the lesson with "I suppose that's enough for today," he seemed to hesitate. Her spirits lifted, and she took advantage.

As she gathered up her jacket and bag, she asked, "I don't suppose you'd like to grab a drink with me?" He opened his mouth to voice what she could only assume was a protest, and she barrelled on. "I know you don't like to go out, but I thought...well, there has to be a vending machine around here somewhere, right?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "Second floor," he said, gravitating toward the door, "though you may find the selection lacking."

She beamed as she followed him out of the room. "I'm easy to please."

They took the elevator down to a pair of vending machines, where Christine examined her options from the one that sold drinks. "So what do you want?" she asked cheerfully. "I'm buying."

"Nothing for me, thank you."

"Choose something, or I'll choose for you."

Erik huffed. "A water, then."

Satisfied, she bought a water for him and a flavored iced tea for herself. He curled black-gloved fingers around the bottle as he watched her unscrew her cap and take a sip, and then he cleared his throat. "Are we finished here, then?"

"I thought we could sit," she said. "Why don't you take me to your favorite place in the building?" As soon as the words left her mouth, however, she knew where that place was.

His eyes glimmered. "Very well, then. But it will be cold."

"I can handle cold."

"All the same, I would like to make a stop." He led her to his office on the same floor, where he retrieved his black wool coat, as well as the gray blanket that he'd loaned her the day she got caught in the rain. The pair of them took the combination of elevator and winding stairs up to the observation deck.

The belfry was dark, save for the moonlight and a small safety light near the stairs. The air was crisp and woody. Erik let her choose a spot in front of the open-air grating, and they sipped at their drinks as they looked out over the warm glow of the city, the flickering headlights of motor traffic. The wind flared up often, whipping her hair across her face and making her shiver.

"I never thought I'd stick around so long," she confessed, "but I do love this town."

"Where was it that you had planned to be?"

"Broadway, of course!" Christine flashed him a phony grin and a solitary jazz hand, the other still clutching her iced tea. "At least, that was the dream. But I probably would've gone to any place that took me." Her gaze drifted out over the city again. "What about you? What was your dream?"

"Ah, well, I was always an overachiever; I had too many to count."

"But if you had to choose just one?"

Erik frowned in her periphery. The moonlight leant a bluish cast to his white mask, making him look somehow even more brooding. "I wanted to compose."

"What stopped you?" She had an idea, of course, but how much would he tell her?

"Everything, I'm afraid. Life was...unkind."

She waited, but he did not elaborate. "Well," she said, "why not try again?"

He let out a caustic laugh. "There's no point."

"Not with that attitude, there isn't."

Even as the words slipped out, she could hear how patronizing they were. Her neck and face heated as he turned to skewer her with a glare.

"You are even more naive than I thought," he said, "if you believe it's only a matter of attitude to overcome life's injustices."

She felt herself shrinking. "That's not what I meant."

"Perhaps not, but the fact is that you run on some sort of foolish optimism that is in no way compatible with how the world actually works."

Her lower lip trembled with a gut-wrenching combination of anger and shame. _No, Christine. Do_ not _cry._ She drew herself up to her full height, even though it was so much shorter than his, and she squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

"You know nothing about me or the way that my world works," she said. "For some of us, that 'foolish optimism,' as you call it, is the only way to cope with the things that haunt us."

"It is _not_ the only way, and you know it."

She could only gape as he set his water on a nearby ledge and turned to face her fully. "You do not need costumes and makeup to be a storyteller, Miss Daaé. Take what the world has wrought, and make it beautiful. Because I guarantee that someone, somewhere, needs to hear what you have to say, in the way that you choose to say it." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "You have fleeting moments of such brilliance when you give yourself over to emotion," he said, more softly now. "But you dance around the edges of life, like a terrified child, when you ought to be diving in."

She considered his words, and then she considered her reply. She shouldn't say it, shouldn't risk driving him away—but she couldn't stop herself. "Either you're mistaken," she said, "or you're a giant hypocrite."

He blinked at her, the muscles of his neck going rigid. "I beg your pardon?"

"If you expect me to channel pain into music, then you should be doing the same thing." She locked eyes with him. Though it was difficult to see his dark irises in the low light, she could feel the hardness of his stare. "But you're not composing, are you?"

His jaw shifted. "Perhaps I will now," he snapped. "The second you leave, I'll pen a tune fueled by unbridled frustration."

"Frustration at what? Being called out for once?"

"At being harassed by someone with the persistence of a gnat."

"Is that what I am to you?" she asked, the authority in her voice wavering. "A buzzing irritation?"

His jaw softened. "No," he said, more quietly now. "In fact, I expect that any song you inspired would render quite beautifully. Some dissonance in the beginning, perhaps, but it would only serve to make the melody stronger."

They stared at each other. Christine's lips parted without sound. She could only stay rooted to the spot, awaiting his next move. He moistened his lips.

Then he turned away, toward the window grate, and stared once more into the distance. "Forgive me," he said. "Your accusation of hypocrisy is not unfounded. I fear my life is on a collision course with ruin, and it deters me from taking the same initiative that I've demanded of you. But perhaps we could both use a small push in the right direction."

"Or a large shove, in your case," she grumbled. And at that, he did the unthinkable: he smiled.

It was a restrained smile, little more than a taut pull of lips, with no teeth exposed—but it was the only one of Erik's that she had ever seen. In that brief second, his whole persona changed, and she was captivated.

"You are not as docile as you initially appeared," he said, and the spell was broken as quickly as it had manifested.

 _Docile_. As though he'd assigned her all the significance of a domesticated animal. "Sorry to disappoint," she replied bitterly.

"I did not say it was a disappointment."

Her eyebrows shot up. Was it possible that he was actually _flirting_ with her? She studied him more closely, but his expression was as inscrutable as ever. He retrieved his water and took a sip.

A burst of wind called attention to the cold that now clawed its way into her skin and bones, and she wrapped her arms snugly around her torso. "How's your water?" she asked.

"Refreshing. And your iced tea?"

"Tastes like furniture polish." She held out the bottle with shivering fingers. "Want some?"

"As tempting as the offer is, I must decline." He cocked his head. "Forgive me, but you do not seem to be, as you said, 'handling' the cold particularly well."

"I'm okay with the cold," she replied. "It's the wind that gets me." As though on cue, she was forced to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering.

Erik gave a disapproving grunt. He returned his water to the ledge and grabbed the blanket he'd set there, and with a snap of his wrists it unfurled before him. He draped it gently over her shoulders.

"Thank you." Her voice went hoarse under the weight of his hands on her. She tried to ignore the fact that he'd just pulled a classic man-courts-woman maneuver. It was not romantic chivalry, she told herself, as much as it was common decency.

She set down her tea to pull the blanket tighter, craning her neck to see the higher bells of the carillon as she did so. "So when do I get to play these?" she joked.

"Before our next lesson, if you wish."

"What? Really?"

He nodded. "I intend to keep you on a rigorous diet of music, Miss Daaé. You may come to rue the day you insisted upon these lessons."

* * *

The next morning, she jogged upstairs in hopes of catching Darius before he left for work. He answered the door with bright eyes, the cuffs of his pale lilac shirt still unbuttoned. The smells of toast and coffee wafted out into the hall.

"Hey," she said, "do you have a minute to talk about Er—oh!" Her train of thought evaporated as she spotted Raoul in the background.

"Heeey, what's up, Chris?" He rubbed at the back of his head and flashed her a sheepish grin. "Nice place you got here."

"I'm so sorry," she said, taking a step back. "I'll come back later."

Darius was quick to object. "No, please; come in. There's coffee if you want it."

"I was just on my way out," Raoul added, hoisting the strap of his messenger bag over one shoulder. "I've got a date with the law library."

"Well, if you're sure..."

At their further urging, Christine slipped in to sit at the kitchen table. It held the remnants of breakfast: two coffee-stained mugs, two plates littered with crumbs and bright trails of egg yolk, two crumpled paper napkins. She felt a stab of jealousy, but it passed swiftly as she watched Darius and Raoul exchange farewells at the door. They shared a lingering kiss, and she averted her eyes, feeling intrusive.

She was treated to Darius' boyish grin when he came over to clear the dishes.

"That escalated quickly," she said.

He shook his head in disbelief as he set the plates in the sink. "I didn't think I was ready for someone else, but he's just so..."

"Cute?"

He laughed. "He's so different," he said, sinking into the chair opposite her. "He has this charming sort of nonchalance about him, and yet he cares deeply about things. About people."

"Does he know you're working on his brother's case?"

His face went somber, and he drummed his fingers against the table. "He doesn't even know there _is_ a case. Phil wants as few people to know as possible, and I can't exactly compromise an open investigation, so..."

"Awkward."

"Yeah. But enough about me: what's up?"

"I saw Erik last night. He agreed to more lessons."

Darius clapped his hands together. "Awesome. And you're here to get the wire?"

"Actually," she said, her eyes trained on the table, "I don't think I can do it anymore."

Though she couldn't see his disappointment, she could hear the puff of air that he forced through his nostrils. "May I ask why?"

"I think I kind of...like him."

His eyebrows vaulted. "As in, you like him, or you _like_ like him?"

"What are we, twelve? The first one." She found, though, that she still couldn't meet his gaze. "But maybe also the second," she mumbled.

"Noooo," he moaned quietly.

"I know."

"Do I have remind you that this is a man convicted of arson?"

"I _know_. But I'm starting to think that he might actually have been framed! He just seems too _smart_ to have done the things they said he did."

"He _is_ smart," said Darius, "and therefore we can't trust him. Not yet, anyway."

Here she did look up at him, pleading. "But I really _want_ to trust him, and that's why I don't think I'm a good fit for this...thing."

"I understand," he said. "I really do. But if you were to back out now, I think…" He rubbed at the back of his neck. "I think it would look suspicious, to others."

"Others meaning Nadir?"

He nodded.

"Suspicious how? Like...aiding and abetting?"

Another nod, more remorseful this time. "He would probably have to investigate you, too."

Christine let out a strangled noise of frustration. "What is his _deal,_ Darius? He goes to all this trouble to investigate Erik on a hunch, but he couldn't do the same on Erik's behalf?"

Darius hesitated. "To be honest, that's something I've thought a lot about myself. It's...puzzling."

"Oh?" She leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"I can't be any more specific. Just—know that I'm looking into it, okay? He's my partner, and also my senior. I have to tread carefully."

"Can you at least get me out of this? Without consequence, I mean?"

"I honestly don't know. God, I need more coffee now." He got up to refill his mug while she sulked. She found herself staring at the photo of his parents on the fridge, trying to recall the last time she'd traveled. It had been, what, five years ago? Six?

"Okay, I have an idea," he said as he sat back down. "Why don't you try wearing the mic and recorder to your next lesson, just to get comfortable with it? You don't even have to turn it on. I'll see what I can wrestle out of Nadir in the meantime."

She chewed at her bottom lip and tried not to get swept up in his lovely, giant puppy-dog eyes, but she was helpless to resist their power. "Fine," she said. "It's in three days."

* * *

On Monday night, at ten minutes to nine, Christine climbed the stairs to the carillon. The observation deck was silent, save for the distant _whoosh_ of high-speed traffic on the freeways. As she walked the perimeter, she trailed her fingertips along the icy rims of the largest, lowest-hanging bells.

Darius had given her what was technically a concealed gun holster for the small of her back, and she wore it now. It wrapped around her waist, with the small recording device tucked into the back holster. The wire snaked around to the front of her torso and up to the center of her bra, where she'd clipped the tiny microphone. She wore a lacy camisole over everything, and then a loose cardigan over that.

"Just...text me when you plan to use it, okay?" he'd said of the wire. "So that I know where you are." She had not texted him tonight, though; as had been agreed upon, the device was off.

She found Erik on the bench of the playing cabin, and once she'd shucked her bag and jacket, he moved to make room for her beside him.

"First, position your right foot over this pedal," he said, indicating which one she was to use. "That's how we'll toll the hour." Once she'd moved her foot into place, he cupped her right hand in both of his. "To play the melody, you curl your fists loosely, like this." He molded her fingers accordingly, and she replicated their form on her other hand.

He released her and positioned his own fist above one of the wooden clavier batons. "You play the batons by gently striking with the undersides of the fists, like so"—here he demonstrated the movement, without any pressure—"and, as with a piano, your playing velocity will affect the resulting tone."

Christine mimicked his movements. The batons felt like wooden broomsticks beneath her hands.

"Unlike a piano," he continued, "each baton will give you a different amount of resistance. That is, I think, what makes the carillon quite unique. Sophisticated. Haptic interaction, they call it: based on touch."

He rose from the bench, pulling a shirt cuff aside to check his watch. "Twenty seconds to nine," he announced, and he rounded the bench to stand behind her. "Are you ready?"

She straightened in panic. "Wait, what? I don't know what I'm doing!"

"Ah, Miss Daaé. Relax." Erik bent forward, his long arms sliding along her much shorter ones to bracket her torso, and he wrapped his gloved fingers around her fists. The warmth of his breath on one side of her neck quickened her already rapid heartbeat. He spoke softer now, his lips hovering just beside her ear. "Handle the batons gently," he said. "They are very responsive to touch."

With a firm grip, he led her through the short melody of the Westminster Quarters. The batons yielded pleasantly to the pressure of her fists. The bells clanged just outside the playing cabin, their vibrations thrumming through the whole of the belfry as well as deep in her chest, and she imagined their music seeping through the town, filling the gaps between buildings. Never before had music surrounded her with such striking physicality.

Erik released her once the melody was finished. "Now hold down the pedal," he instructed, and as the deep _bong_ of one of the behemoth bells reverberated throughout the playing cabin, he counted out four slow beats. "And again," he said. _BONG, two, three, four:_ it was exhilarating. Nine times she did this, once for every hour, and on the last note he signaled when it was safe to lift her foot off the pedal.

She looked up at him then, grinning and euphoric, resisting the sudden urge to throw her arms around him.

"My, my," he said softly. "You are practically made of music, Christine Daaé." He offered a hand to help her off the bench, and she stepped out of the cabin as he grabbed his coat and turned off the lights. "No doubt it's written into your DNA, if you and your father are any indication." He closed and locked the door behind them.

A shock of unease rippled through her at the mention of her father, though she could not have said why. She'd told Erik about him, after all.

It didn't hit her until they were descending the stairs from the belfry: he had to have known, before he'd ever met her, that Charles Daaé had been the one to replace him. Was it possible, then, that he'd known who she was the moment he learned her name?

She racked her brain. He'd placed his book order _after_ Professor Buquet's funeral, she recalled now. He'd been the one to propose the lessons, and he'd led her to believe that he was unemployed—a fact he'd only clarified once she'd stumbled upon him at work.

Her stomach churned as she recalled how tight-lipped and alert Erik had been when she'd described how her father had secured his teaching post, and how oddly he'd reacted when she'd attributed the job lead to the elder Phil de Chagny. He'd prompted that entire discussion, hadn't he? And once he'd gotten that final admission, he'd suddenly lost interest in giving her lessons.

Christine gripped the stair rail tighter as she trailed after him. A wave of nausea had arrived with the only conclusion that made sense to her now: Erik had known who she was since day one.

"I need to use the restroom," she said as they spilled into the eighth-floor hallway. "Can I meet you in the classroom?"

"Of course."

She fell to her knees in one of the stalls, head poised to vomit.

 _But he agreed to keep giving you lessons_ , she argued with herself. _That has to count for something_. He'd only done so, however, after she'd worn him down.

 _He also accepted your invitation to the Halloween party!_ came the next rationalization, and for a fleeting moment she felt some semblance of hope—until she recalled that the party had been at the home of one Phil de Chagny, Jr.

Oh, God. Everything lined up.

If he truly believed he'd been framed—almost fatally, at that—and that those responsible had ruined his life, then she could think of only one reason why he'd risk everything to stick around upon his release from prison. And to work at the same university, no less! (But as a contractor, she recalled Nadir saying, and therefore not on the university payroll—it was a clever loophole, and she wondered how he'd pulled it off.)

Either he wanted justice, or he wanted retribution. She couldn't imagine any way for him to go about either within the confines of the law, not when he couldn't get the support of the detective he'd apparently trusted the most.

To realize that Erik was almost certainly extorting people: that should have bothered her more than anything, Christine knew. But it was the knowledge she'd been _used_ that coated her insides like venomous sludge and made her almost retch.

Somehow, she managed to beat back the nausea. She sat up straight, and then she reached for the recording device strapped to her back and turned it on.

* * *

The lesson was both blessedly and disappointingly uneventful. She barely thought twice about wearing the wire, except when Erik rose from the piano and, in a move she hadn't foreseen, pressed a gloved hand to her back to correct her posture.

"Elongate your spine," he said as she went rigid against his touch. He was so very close to the holster; had he brushed it with a fingertip? But he droned on—something about giving her diaphragm room—and the tension slowly melted from her body.

He approached her afterward, as they both put on their coats. "I've thought of an aria that you would be well-suited for," he said, "but the music is in storage. I wonder if you might accompany me to get it? Assuming you have a few extra minutes."

"Of course," Christine replied, eager for any excuse to extend their time together. Perhaps he'd open up to her now.

In the elevator, he punched the button for the basement and stood back quietly, hands clasped.

"So do you live nearby?" she asked.

"Yes, fairly close." His reply was brusque, his eyes trained forward, and her confidence faltered.

The doors opened to the basement, and she shuddered involuntarily—whether it was from the cold or something else, she couldn't have said. The space was vast and dark, with a sort of ominousness to it that she couldn't explain. Then again, she'd never been comfortable in basements.

Erik grabbed one of several flashlights hanging from a row of tool pegs. He led her past a tangled network of valves and ducts to arrive at a rust-tinged metal door, which required his ring of building keys to unlock.

He stepped through and motioned for her to follow. "Watch your step," he said, "and do not touch the pipes."

She found herself in a dank concrete corridor, about six feet wide, with large, suspended metal pipes taking up half the width. The walls were graffitied, and dotted intermittently with safety lights that did little to chase away the inky shadows.

"What is this place?" she whispered, as though her voice might rouse some unseen beast from its slumber.

"Steam tunnels," Erik answered, keeping his brisk pace ahead of her. In the low light, the hem of his long coat—unbuttoned and loose—flapped about him like a stiff cloak. "Part of a network connecting to every building on campus. They carry cables and electrical wires as well. Through here, please." He'd unlocked a door to another identical corridor, and he ushered her to enter ahead of him.

Everything felt so very wrong all of a sudden.

"This can't be a safe place to store sheet music," she said lightly, unwilling to give voice to the doubt in her mind: _Please tell me there's sheet music here_.

"Oh, Christine," he replied, almost pityingly, and then she knew.

Her spine went rigid. Still walking, she slid her bag off her shoulder and began to rummage for her keys.

His voice, when it came again, was calm and even. "If you are looking for your pepper spray, you will not find it."

Her breath caught in her throat. She stopped and turned.

He held her keys aloft for her to see, his masked face impassive. "Before you take any further action, Miss Daaé, I will have you know that many of these pipes will burn you on contact. They are under high pressure and will sometimes burst. And the electrical systems down here carry enough voltage to kill a man instantly, should something go awry. Now"—he pocketed her keys—"I ask that you continue walking forward until you reach the far door on your left."

Christine's heart thudded so wildly that it hurt, and fresh tears stung her eyes. What else was there to do? Somehow her legs, weak as they were, carried her to the door in question. As she waited for Erik to unlock it, she closed her eyes against a new wave of nausea.

The door creaked open. "Go in," he instructed, and she obeyed.

The new corridor was pitch black. There was a flick of a switch nearby, and as the lights came on she was stunned to realize that it was not, in fact, a corridor, but a large room. The lighting here was softer, warmer; it illuminated what looked like a vast studio apartment: cold and encased in concrete, but with all of the furniture and necessities one would need to live comfortably. An air mattress on the floor was fitted with crisp bedding in slate blue, and there was even a modern area rug in front of the sofa.

The door slammed shut behind her. Erik stood between her and the exit, posture rigid, eyes hard. "I must ask that you turn your back to me," he said quietly, "and place your hands on your head. I see no safe alternative here, I am afraid."

Again she obeyed. It had been far too long since she'd taken a self-defense class, and she was paralyzed by uncertainty and fear. The tears fell freely now. She closed her eyes once more as he lifted the camisole and cardigan from her skin.

He took great care not to touch her; she did not feel his hand until it closed on the recording device, and even then, it was only the slightest brush of a finger. But it was not leathery; it was warm, and callused. He had removed his glove.

He pulled the recorder from its holster, and then he followed the wire around to her abdomen, still careful not to graze her skin as he moved beneath the shirts. One swift tug, and the mic was yanked from its resting place. He withdrew his hand.

"Thank you," he said. "My apologies."

She lowered her arms and faced him. His uncovered hand had just slipped the device into his pocket, and though he was quick to replace the glove, she still caught a glimpse of gnarled pink flesh where thumb met wrist.

When she glanced up, his eyes were burning into her.

"Now tell me, Miss Daaé: how long have you been working for them?"


	10. The Walking Corpse

A/N: I'm so, so sorry for the wait! It was not my intention to leave you guys hanging for so long, but I was waylaid by a family medical emergency as well as my own illness. I hope this chapter makes up for it.

* * *

He should have known.

He should have known from the moment she'd expressed any interest in him, from how doggedly she'd pursued lessons after initially turning him away, from the mere existence of her apparent interest in his company. Erik was not, and had never been, the sort of person with whom one would want to pass time. He was well aware of how off-putting others found his brooding stoicism, and she was far too sweet.

Or so he'd thought. Had it even been the real Christine Daaé interacting with him all this time? She was, after all, a trained actor.

No. That had felt authentic. Her sweetness had come through the moment he'd first heard her sing, and he wanted—needed—to believe it had remained genuine.

He examined her recording equipment and, secure in the knowledge that it wasn't transmitting anything, pocketed the small device. He'd removed his glove in order to extract it, and he was almost certain she'd caught a glimpse of his burn scars before he covered them again.

She did not seem surprised: only terrified. Of him. His last bit of hope dissolved.

"Now tell me, Miss Daaé," he said, "how long have you been working for them?"

Her mouth opened and closed again in what was clearly a battle of conscience. _God_. Even now, her warm, saccharine goodness liquified his insides. "I just started," she said hoarsely. "They don't know anything."

"And I intend to keep it that way."

Her eyes went wide. "I texted Darius from the bathroom. He knows where I am, and who I'm with."

"He does not know where you are now, I'm afraid. But perhaps we should notify him of your change of plans, so he doesn't worry." He held out his hand, and she surrendered her phone without protest. "Ah. You are referring to this text, which did not go through?" He showed her the screen. "The cell reception in this building is abysmal, I'm afraid."

Christine's face fell, but she was quick to add, "They'll be expecting me at work tomorrow morning."

He resisted the urge to smirk as he pocketed her phone as well. He drew himself to his full height, peering down from a sharp angle meant to intimidate. "Clever girl," he said, "but I know for a fact that you do not work on Tuesdays." There! Let her, too, feel the sting of betrayal.

But there was no satisfaction to be had in the way her jaw went slack with resignation, or in the way the defiant hope in her eyes flickered and then died.

Hot tears had already carved paths down her cheeks, and now there were new ones sliding down those same trails. She looked as though she might be sick, and the sight soured his own stomach. He didn't want to do this. But he had to do whatever it took to stay alive and out of prison, if only to ensure that guilty parties got what they deserved. They would not have the satisfaction of besting him again.

"What are you going to do?" Her voice was flat and weak.

Erik exhaled, fingers twitching at his sides. "I don't know," he confessed. "I panicked."

"Do you... _live_ here?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

Christine's eyebrows shot up, and she surveyed the room. It was sparse, not at all his ideal living space, but he'd had to make do with what he could smuggle into the tunnels between scheduled maintenance rounds: the air mattress, a round two-top table with a pair of metal folding chairs, a small fridge and an alcohol stove, plastic storage pieces. The loveseat had been an ordeal, but he'd grown tired of sitting on nothing but metal and concrete.

"This was a designated bomb shelter during the second Red Scare," he explained. "It has fallen off the radar, for the most part. It has a scheduled maintenance inspection only once a year."

Her gaze had fixed on his violin case with a sort of longing that made his insides flip. "And when was the last inspection?" she asked.

"About eleven months ago."

He pretended not to notice the curious swivel of her head, or her raised eyebrows. Instead, he crossed to the table and pulled out one of the chairs. "Please," he said. "Have a seat." She obeyed, and his muscles slackened ever so slightly.

She sat quietly while he uncorked a red blend and filled the only two tumblers he owned, and once he'd placed them on the table and sat opposite her, they both sipped without comment. It was a wordless agreement to try and ease the tension, and he was grateful.

There was a long period of silence before he asked, quietly, "Did they threaten you?"

Christine glanced up, startled. "No, of course not."

"What did they offer, then? Money?"

She shifted in her seat. "There was talk about the possibility of a reward, I guess, but that's not why I did it."

"Let me guess, then." He set down his glass and tented his long fingers on the table, eying her with perhaps overdramatic scrutiny. "You were swept under the protective wing of one Detective Nadir Khan, who fed you my criminal history and some perceived need to monitor my activity, and out of an unwavering sense of moral obligation and loyalty to your bespectacled friend, you agreed."

There was only a flicker of surprise in her face. "Yes," she conceded. "At first, anyway. I tried to back out before I actually wore the wire."

Erik cocked his head sharply. "Why?"

"That night, on the observation deck, it seemed like—" She stopped, swallowed. "I wanted to trust you."

He could not tear his gaze from her face. "You wanted...to trust me," he repeated, as though expecting a contradiction, but he did not get one. "Even after you learned of my past?"

"Yes." She frowned into her glass. "I've always been too trusting, I guess. I wanted to believe you were innocent."

Words stuck in his throat. His eyes watered. On impulse, he reached out for her hand where it rested on the table, only to stop short. It was still so fresh in his muscle memory, that instinct to shy away from touch. His fingers twitched.

She looked up at him then, eyes questioning, scanning his face—his masked face, no less! What was there even to scan? But whatever it was that she sought, she found it. "Oh, God," she whispered. "You really were, weren't you?"

Still, he could not respond. His chest was tight, and he feared that if he opened his mouth he would let loose an awful, choking sob. He curled his fingers into a tight fist.

How many hours had he wasted in his lifetime, fervently arguing his case, only to be met with doubt and rejection? Yet here was an angel who would exonerate him based on a single glance.

His mind clouded to recall why they were here, however, and he snatched his arm back. Now more confident in her cooperation, he pulled the recording device from his pocket and tossed it onto the table where she could see it. "You were not so sympathetic an hour ago."

Her eyes darkened. "Because I realized you've been using me this whole time!" She pushed away her glass, still half full, as though suddenly repulsed by the wine. "Have you been following me, then?"

"No. Nothing so drastic."

"Drastic?" Her voice had begun to tremble. "You made me think that my voice was special."

"It is," Erik protested. "Oh, Christine, it _is_."

But she shook her head, her eyes watering. "You had me questioning everything, _everything_ , about my choices and my future and my own self-worth. And you exploited the memory of my dead father just to get what you wanted." A lone tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away without breaking eye contact. "Did you get what you wanted, then?"

It was as though she'd reached down his throat and ripped out his insides. "No!" he said. "No, what I want is my life back, and that will never happen. They have ruined me." He drained the rest of the wine, slamming the glass down with such force that she flinched. "But I did take advantage of you in my quest for retribution, and for that I am sorry."

"Tell me what happened." Christine's voice was softer now. "Please."

He batted her words away. "No point. What's done is done."

"But if my father was involved…" She looked as though she might be sick. "I need to know."

He stared at her face, so round and soft and open, and something in him fought hard against the notion of polluting that innocence. Another part of him fought back: she was a grown woman, for heaven's sake, and it was not his place to decide what she could handle.

Erik exhaled slowly, and then he stood. "The sofa is more comfortable," he said, by way of explanation, as he lowered himself onto the loveseat. She joined him with so little hesitation, so little space between them, that he began to question who had the upper hand here.

"You attended this school," he began, "so you must have some idea of how highly athletics are valued."

She rolled her eyes. "Sometimes it seems like they're a bigger deal than the actual academics. Maybe even the research."

"Ah, but make no mistake: they _are_. And that is what I failed to understand, as a lecturer."

He had been detached from university politics, or at least as much as he could afford to be; he'd kept his focus on earning the tenure and prestige that would grant him the freedom to compose. Admittedly, he'd been one of those academics hired to be a productive scholar more than an effective educator—perhaps an unfair deal for those undergraduates going into debt for their education.

For the advanced students, however, a chance to work with a "star player" in their field was an immeasurable opportunity. He had been more than willing to mentor those with the right talent and dedication—those like Christine, he thought now, though he did not tell her as much as he recounted his employment.

Because he'd had less seniority than most of the residing faculty, he'd been one of the lecturers assigned to take over a course for a colleague on maternity leave: music appreciation, an intro-level class for non-majors, historically an easy 'A' and therefore a popular elective among the academically disinclined athletes who majored in general studies.

Admittedly, he had been warned of this fact—but he'd refused to lower his standards. He'd figured he would not be doing those students any favors in life if he let them coast by on little effort. By the end of the term, he had assigned failing grades to two football players, among others.

It had not been well-received. The players had to meet not only minimal GPA requirements to play, but also more stringent requirements to retain their athletic scholarships.

Emails and phone calls started trickling in: first from the two students, then from the coaches, and at one point from Athletic Director Firmin himself. Erik refused to budge on the grades, citing the syllabus in his responses. He'd been very clear on the course breakdown. Reyer, the department head, not only stood behind him but also insisted that he teach the course again next term: their colleague's maternity leave had become a longer hiatus, and there was little time to hire a replacement. He was revising his syllabus for the next semester when things began to snowball.

Initially, he did not look up from his laptop in response to the sharp rapping at his door. "Office hours have ended," he said loudly. But the knocking continued, more insistent this time, and he sighed and got up.

It was not a student at his door, but rather a silver-haired man, objectively handsome, in a sleek navy suit. He was well built, though Erik still towered over him. "Phil de Chagny," he introduced himself, forcing on Erik a stalwart handshake. "From the alumni association executive board. I just need a moment of your time."

"If this is a plea to change the players' grades, you might as well leave now. They were given what they earned."

De Chagny appeared unfazed. "I'm not here to beg," he said, "but rather to ask what would it take to get you to pass the boys."

"Are you actually attempting to _bribe_ me?"

A cold smile. "Nonsense," de Chagny replied. "It was just a question. Purely hypothetical. But I'm very interested in your response."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Regardless, I want you to think about it." He withdrew his wallet and produced a business card that he set on Erik's desk. "Cramped quarters in here," he remarked, his gaze circling the office perimeter. "It'd be nice to be able to take some time off, wouldn't it? Do whatever it is that you musician types do in your spare time?" He tapped the business card with an index finger on his way out. "You call me if you think of an answer."

Erik slammed the door behind him and tossed the card directly into the trash.

Over the next twenty-four hours, however, his resolve weakened. He could not unsee the mental images of himself taking a sabbatical, working on his music, establishing himself as a musician enough that he'd never have to teach again. He considered what he would say if he called de Chagny. He fished out the card and turned it over in his fingers.

How many others, though, had been persuaded to change a grade for the sake of a sport? Persuaded to do worse? The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. He considered notifying the administration, but the burden of proof would be on him, and he had no desire to become entangled in university affairs.

In the end, he did call de Chagny. The call went straight to voicemail, so he did not get the satisfaction of a response as he relayed his message. "I advise you not to contact me further, de Chagny," it concluded, "unless you are prepared for more ruinous consequences."

A week later, he was fired.

He sat, dumbstruck, as Reyer regarded him from across the conference table with what could only be described as uncomfortable sympathy. His jaw went rigid. "I presume you are going to tell me why?"

Reyer sighed as he flipped through the file in front of him. "It's an amalgam of things, really. Your student evaluations have been less than stellar, but then, you already know that."

Erik glowered. It was true that he was not a student favorite—he was known for being brusque and scrupulous—but his worst evaluations had come from the music appreciation class containing the two football players and their friends, a fact not unknown to Reyer.

"You have strained relationships with many of the faculty," Reyer went on, "and I've fielded several complaints on that front, as we've previously discussed."

"Perhaps they ought to learn how to accept constructive criticism."

"You've been telling them how to do their jobs. That's micromanaging."

"I disagree. Regardless, that hardly seems reason enough for termination, nor is it new. What's the real reason, Reyer?"

"Well, the most significant development is that you threatened a well-respected university affiliate."

"I beg your pardon?" As soon as the words left Erik's mouth, however, he knew who that affiliate was. Rage bubbled up hot in his chest. Oh, he certainly had a bone to pick with de Chagny now! "I was threatening to turn him in for bribery," he replied through gritted teeth.

Reyer blinked in mild surprise. "I admit, I have not heard the message," he said, flinching as Erik banged his fist against the table.

"You mean to tell me you've revoked my job based on hearsay?"

"It's not my call." Reyer put his hands up in supplication. "This order comes from the top. I was approached by the provost himself."

Erik leaned forward to scrutinize his superior, whose pale and receding hairline was dotted with tiny beads of sweat. "This reeks of heavy bias," he said, "and you know it."

Reyer licked his lips, producing a handkerchief with which to blot at his forehead. "Honestly, I don't know. I just do what I'm told."

"Coward."

"Maybe so. But I cannot risk losing my job, not with Cathy still in chemo."

"Ah, of course not. Mine is the expendable one."

Reyer pressed his fingertips to his temples and sighed. "I beg of you, Erik, not to make this more difficult than it has to be. My hands are tied."

Erik stood so abruptly that the chair shot out from beneath him. "Ah, but is that not what I do, friend? Make things difficult? Rest assured that I will be paying Moncharmin a visit."

"I will need your keys," said Reyer.

With the most scathing look he could manage, Erik threw his building and office keys onto the table, and then he stalked out of the room and straight across campus to the provost's office.

Moncharmin was out to lunch, the ginger-haired secretary told him, and had a full schedule for the afternoon, but would he like to book an appointment for a later time? Erik informed her that he would not leave until he was granted an audience, and when she began to object, he glared at her with such searing intent that she did not protest as he took a seat.

He seethed in his chair for at least half an hour before a chorus of boisterous male voices reached his ears. He sat up straighter; one of them was particularly familiar.

It was that same voice that spoke as a small group of men came into view: de Chagny, shorter than the others yet more imposing, sleeker, cockier. "You'll let me know about Daaé, then? He'd be a natural for the position."

He was flanked by both the provost and the athletic director, and at the sight of the three of them palling around, Erik's every question was answered, his every suspicion confirmed.

He supposed he had underestimated the moneymaking potential of the athletics program: tickets, concessions, advertising opportunities, merchandise. The very notion of athletics undermining a university through widespread corruption made his blood boil.

"Absolutely," replied Moncharmin. His tan suit hung a bit too heavy on his narrow frame. "Tell you what, have him meet us at the steakhouse tomorrow night. His wife, too, if he's got one."

De Chagny shook his head. "Widowed, I'm afraid."

"I might come without a wife tomorrow, too, if Jen doesn't promise to ease off the wine," said Firmin, the athletic director, with a laugh that was boisterous and gruff. He was brawnier than the other two, with unsettlingly red skin, as though his clothes were always cinched too tight.

Erik struggled to suppress his disgust at the exchange, yet none of them noticed the assistant professor glowering in the corner despite his stare, or his bony and angular length of limb, or the hot anger rippling off of him. In fact, the group dispersed and the provost walked right past him until he stood to his full and imposing height. "I would have a word with you, sir."

Moncharmin appraised him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. "I'm afraid I can only meet by appointment," he said, "for non-urgent matters."

"I was just fired for your own financial gain," Erik snapped. "That seems plenty urgent to me."

The fear that flared up in Moncharmin's eyes passed just as quickly as it appeared, and he turned calmly to address his secretary. "Gina? Please call campus security."

Erik slapped his palm against the wall in defiance, eliciting a tiny shriek from Gina as she fumbled for the receiver. "I won't be hauled out of here like a common criminal," he spat as he made for the door, and he jabbed an accusing finger at his new adversary. "You can expect a lawsuit, you degenerate bastard."

He'd gone home and raged and drunk himself into a stupor, and the next day, he had sought out a lawyer. He'd had no intention of ever returning to campus, but after nearly two weeks, he'd gotten a voicemail from Reyer imploring him to clean out his office. It had contained almost nothing of significant value to him—his prized violin, thankfully, had been home on the day of his termination—but he'd considered how much money and effort it would take to replace all of the sheet music he'd left behind. With great reluctance, he had contacted the department to let them know when to unlock the office for him.

"I remember almost nothing from that day," he told Christine now. "Only flashes of memory. Your father, for example, comes to mind." Her eyes went wide. "Yes, I saw him step out of a faculty office near mine. I didn't recognize him, so I checked the door for his name as I passed. That was when I realized that this man, Daaé, whom de Chagny had brought in—he was the one who'd replaced me."

Her face paled. "You—you don't think…?"

"That he was involved? I hardly knew what to think at the time." His heart sank at the way her fingers trembled in her lap, and he sighed. "I do not blame him, Christine, not now. It's likely he had no idea what he was walking into."

She nodded, but she did not look entirely convinced. "And then what happened?" she asked. "Or can you not remember?"

"I am certain I was drugged," he replied, "because I woke up on the floor of my office, and the events _after_ that point are abundantly clear in my memory."

"What happened when you woke up?"

"I was on fire."

* * *

She could only gape. She'd known the fire would have to factor into Erik's tale at some point, but not like this. There was supposed to have been a build-up of events, a sequence of steps and factors that somehow all contributed to an inevitable catastrophe. To wake up to a room on fire—that wasn't something anyone could foresee. It didn't make sense.

"I was told that it was likely my hair that caught first," he said, "with the burns spreading to my face, neck, and shoulders. Then my hands and arms, likely from attempts to put out the flames." His eyes fixed on her with startling acuity. "Have you ever been burned, Christine? A finger, perhaps?"

She managed only a wide-eyed nod.

"Then you know there's a brief delay after that initial contact, when reflexes and adrenaline kick in, and you feel almost nothing until you pull away from the heat source." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "That's how I got myself out of my office and into the relative safety of the hall. And then I hit the floor." He went quiet, his jaw shifting anxiously, as though waiting for her permission to continue.

She didn't want him to. She wanted to stand up and walk out, to pretend she'd never heard any of this. It was _painful_ , this newfound knowledge, as though the wind had been knocked out of her, and her stomach churned more forcefully with every second. She forced herself to voice the question: "And then what?"

"And then pain." Erik swallowed. "Searing, white-hot, all-consuming agony, so intense that I lost consciousness again. But when I woke up later, in the hospital, it was still there. And it lasted for weeks." His gaze met hers and then flitted away. "I wished quite fervently for death."

Christine shut her eyelids to squeeze out the tears that had collected there.

"Later, when I saw what had become of my upper body, and my face—well, I briefly wished for death then, too."

She opened her eyes to find him staring straight at her, his expression unreadable. It was the first time she'd noticed the color of his irises: golden brown, with deeper color at the base that fanned out bright and vivid. Like fire. Every muscle in her chest constricted.

"Show me," she said, and she was terrified.

Erik gave a gentle shake of his head. "It will haunt you, I'm afraid."

"Please. I just...I want to understand the full scope of what you've been through."

He exhaled slowly, his mouth quirking back into a tiny, sad smile. "I've long suspected you'd be driven away by my past or my face, if not both. Is my utter brokenness not enough to ward you off?"

"You really think I'm that superficial?"

His laugh was sharp and bitter. "There are hardened criminals who could not stand to look at me, Miss Daaé." The return to her formal title made her flinch. "You may think I'm being flippant, but believe me when I say that your kindness cannot overcome man's instinctive aversion to horror."

"But those men in prison—they didn't know you. Not like...well..."

"Like you do? Is that what you were going to say? Because all things considered, my dear, you know practically nothing about me."

This _is why no one likes you_ , she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She supposed he had every reason to be cynical. "Give me your hand," she instructed instead, holding out her palm. "We'll start small."

He stiffened, his fingers twitching at his side. His eyes darted from her hand to her face.

"I already saw it, you know," she said, more softly now. "After you took out the wire."

His mouth twisted and pulled inscrutably, and then he set his left hand in her upturned palm. It shook just slightly, prompting her to wrap her fingers around it and squeeze.

Erik sucked in air, emitting something between a gasp and a hiss. She relaxed her grip, but she did not let go. "I'm sorry. Does it hurt?"

"No." His gaze had yet to leave that point of contact between them. "Not for some time. I'm afraid I have simply grown unused to—to touch."

Christine immediately thought of Halloween: how closely they had swayed to the music, how his hand had hovered on the small of her back as they'd crossed the dance floor. How much anxiety had that cost him?

A buzzing warmth surged through her. She had meant for her gesture to reassure him, but suddenly she was just as nervous. She had not realized just how desperately she'd wanted to touch him, to touch _skin_ , to surpass these barriers of cloth and insecurity.

Her every movement slow and gentle, she fished the cuff of the black glove out from beneath his sleeve and peeled the snug leather off his fingers.

She was quick to take his bare hand between hers. It was warm, and slightly clammy. His fingers were long and thin, knobby at the knuckles, and the accidental brush of one against the back of her hand sent shivers up her spine.

His skin was pale, so pale, with a translucence that seemed to expose every wiry vein beneath it. Along the curve of thumb to forefinger, however, it rose thick and dusky pink, in gnarled peaks and valleys. Like mountains forged from heat, his skin bubbled up into hardened crests that spoke of violent beginnings.

Gently, Christine ran the pad of her thumb along the raised scar, noting how he sucked more air between his teeth. "It's really not so bad," she said.

"Ah, well. That is the nicer of the two."

"Let's see the other one, then."

He swallowed visibly and then, to her relief, surrendered his right hand. Off came that glove as well. The flesh here was a bit redder, scalier, the scars extending to the back of his hand, down much of his wrist to disappear beneath his sleeve. She studied it for a moment, and then she tugged at the lapels of his jacket, signaling for him to remove it.

His eyes, frantic and probing, did not stray from hers as he shrugged off the coat and set it beside him. Then his face hardened with a sudden and willful determination, and he held out his right forearm in offering. She unbuttoned the shirt cuff and rolled it back.

The skin was rough and raised here, too: a sheath of mottled scales, stretching up the arm as far as she could push his sleeve. She trailed her fingers down it, feeling the rasp of it against her own skin.

By society's standards, this was one of the least intimate things she'd ever done with a man, but it felt every bit the contrary. Where was this newfound boldness coming from? The wine, perhaps, or her raised adrenaline?

There was a third possibility, but she didn't dare get her hopes up: that younger Christine, the one with enthusiasm and resolve, was not actually dead these last four years, but just lying dormant. Waiting to be roused.

Erik watched her every move, the rigid muscles in his jaw so betraying his discomfort that she imagined she could hear his heart beating rapidfire in his chest. Her hands fluttered at his collar then, unbuttoning, parting fabric. Here was more of the angry, twisted flesh: along his collarbone, over his shoulders, down his front to disappear beneath the unbuttoned portions of shirt. She flattened her palm against his sternum, and there she truly _did_ feel his heartbeat, rough and wild, straining against its confines.

He blanketed her hand with one of his own. His mouth opened as though he meant to say something, but he faltered and closed it again. Instead, he curled his fingers around her wrist and brought her knuckles to his lips, pressing with such desperate force that it froze her and took her breath away.

Only once he lowered her hand was he able to speak. "You need not go any further," he said. "This—this will sustain me. I thank you."

She shook her head, and as she cast him an imploring glance— _trust me_ —she reached up for the mask.

He did not stop her, as she'd half expected. Rather, he seemed paralyzed by his fear, his lips parting in silent protest as she gingerly removed the mask to reveal his face.

At the sight, Christine clapped a hand to her mouth. The mask fell onto the sofa between them.

The skin here had that same sort of gnarled crustiness to it, but it was so prevalent that it eroded every part of what she imagined had been his God-given face. He had no eyebrows; any definition in his eyelids seemed to have melted away; his nose had been reduced to a slight ridge with two small, asymmetrical holes at its base. The overall effect looked like another sort of mask, one as featureless as a plaster cast, but mottled pink and waxy.

She hated herself for the thought, but it looked almost inhuman.

His eyes were hard as he studied her reaction. "Are you satisfied now?" he bit out, fingers curled toward his face like angry talons. "Is this what you wanted to see? There's more, you know." He reached up, and then his hair was coming off, too—oh, God, had it been a wig all this time?—and the brownish-pink scales were there as well, the puckered flesh sealing off all but a few wisps of ashen hair at his scalp.

She knew she was crying but she couldn't stop, could not even articulate _why_ she was crying because she was so overwhelmed by everything that had taken place—both in his past and now, here, on this very sofa—to culminate in this moment.

"Ah, yes, you're frightened now, aren't you? 'The walking corpse,' they called me in prison. There could not have been a more fitting name, really, because the man I once was is dead. His soul is dead, his body is dead, and he is resigned to roam this earth a wraith." Erik laughed, laughed so bitterly that it _hurt_ her. "Do you want to hear something ridiculous? I actually believed, for a moment, that you were an angel sent to resurrect him." He leered at her, the wrinkled flesh around his mouth rendering it something newly impish, as though to suggest that she was the farthest thing from a savior that could possibly exist.

Christine's mind reeled. She'd gotten through to him, and then she'd ruined it, ruined everything, sent him spiraling madly out of her grip. She found herself fumbling desperately for something, _anything_ that would bring him back to her. And so she she did something wild, something desperate—the only thing she could think of to snap him out of his tirade. Her hands flew up to steady his distorted face, and she crushed her lips to his.


	11. The Rose

She was kissing him.

His horrid face was raw and exposed, and Christine Daaé was _kissing him_.

Erik plastered his hands against hers to tear them from the sides of his face, but his palms defied him and pinned her there instead.

They sat, frozen, for several seconds: she, pressing her mouth to his with urgent force; he, clinging to her for dear life, eyes open and wild.

Finally she drew back for air, with a wide-eyed apprehension to suggest that she was just as surprised by this development as he was. She was waiting for his reaction, he realized. What was he supposed to do? Never, ever would he have predicted this as a possible outcome. It defied all reason.

His body moved of its own volition, leaning in to reclaim her lips.

His mouth swept against hers, again and again, with a thirst that could only be slaked by that tender and rosy warmth. It was so obvious now, in hindsight, that this was what he'd wanted all along: when she'd sung her heart out in the dark; when she'd played his carillon with unbridled joy; when she'd pulled him onto the dance floor and made him feel like a human instead of like a—a _thing_ , a mutant who'd crawled out of the fire only to be denounced and forgotten.

He gorged himself on the soft, wet heat of her mouth until it made him dizzy, until he realized that she was kissing him _again_ , kissing him back as her palms pressed more firmly against his face.

He broke away with a gasp.

Their faces now inches apart, they stared at each other in awed silence. His breaths came thick and fast and shaky. He had been a monster, and she—she was so good, _too_ good, every bit the angel he had just told her she wasn't.

Slowly, uncertainly, he stood and backed away from her. He snatched up the mask and wig as he did so, quick to cover his face.

He lifted her bag from the floor, and into it he dropped the wire and the phone he'd confiscated. "Take this," he said quietly. Only when she stared uncertainly at his outstretched arm did he realize that his hands were still ungloved, his right sleeve rolled back, his shirt parted at the collar. His scars rose red and angry and abhorrent where his clothing had been peeled away, as though he'd been ravaged.

She hadn't torn him apart, though. She had made him whole again, or at least as close to it as he ever would be.

She took the bag, and he rushed to button up his shirt and slip the gloves on. She watched him all the while, motionless, bag hanging limply at her side.

"I will take you back upstairs," he told her as he reached for his jacket. "I should never have brought you here." He made for the door, but she grabbed his arm.

"What do I tell Darius and Nadir?"

"Tell them—" He hesitated, his eyes fixed on the pale hand that clutched his wrist. "Tell them whatever it is you have to tell them."

"They'll want to know where you live."

"With any luck, I will be gone by the time you inform them." He twisted his arm free and began to unlock the series of bolts and chains on the door. She remained at his side, but he could not bring himself to look her in the eyes.

"But where will you go?"

"I do not yet know," he said, "but it's probably wise that I not tell you regardless."

"What does it matter? They know where you work. They could find you there, if they wanted to."

"If they know where I live, then others could just as easily find out." The last of the locks clicked open. "I need a place where I can hide, if necessary. At all times."

"Others," she repeated. "Meaning...?"

He did look at her then, nodding. "People who would want me dead a second time."

She bit her lip, and in the seconds that followed, her eyes went glossy. Moisture pooled at the lower lids and spilled onto her cheeks. He reached out with a gloved thumb to wipe away her tears, but the leather only spread them out into a watery sheen. "What," he murmured, "is this?"

"I'm scared for you," she whispered. "Why would you choose to stay here?"

"I cannot let them get away with what they did."

He knew instantly he'd said too much. He pulled away to open the door in hopes that an exit would prove enough of a distraction, but she planted her hand against the door to stop it, eying him warily. "What does that involve?"

"I do not wish to talk about it." He tried to push past her, but she wedged herself between him and the door. He cursed inwardly at how much of himself he'd already revealed, at how much he should but _did not_ regret doing so. He was fond of this more spirited Christine, this woman who was no longer afraid of him, but she was also _terribly_ inconvenient.

"Erik." He shuddered at the sound of his name on her tongue. She touched a hand to his arm, the tightness in her face dissolving. "It's awful, what they did to you, and you did nothing to deserve it. But please tell me you're not considering some kind of vigilante justice."

Erik ground his back teeth. "I said I did not want to talk about it." No doubt the hand on his arm was meant to calm him, but it only reminded him of how lovingly she had touched his scars just minutes before, and had he dreamt it or had she just said that she was _scared_ for him? He peered down at her, at her hair fanned out in tangled waves over her shoulders, and he found himself swaying slightly. If he leaned forward, just so, his lips would be on hers again.

"Stay with me," she said, and the reverie was broken.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have a spare room, and I can keep you hidden until we sort things out. You were going to have to move anyway, right? There's only a month until that inspection."

"You live directly below one of the police detectives in question!"

"Then we'll just have to be careful, won't we?"

Her calm unsettled him. As per usual, his fingers had worked their way into fists again. "It will never work in the long term."

"Just until you've found a better option, then."

He drew closer, so close, as though proximity would somehow reveal that which he could not understand. His voice was gravelly. "If you are doing this out of pity—"

"I'm not."

His eyes bore into hers, probing, but she did not shy from his gaze. It was the first time he'd made note of her eye color: a deep, rich, russet brown that seemed to soak up her warmth. He felt himself faltering: a loathsome feeling, certainly, but one he was growing accustomed to. How many times had he compromised his resolve, his safety, just to be nearer to her?

He briefly closed his eyes. _This is madness._

Christine watched him with one corner of her mouth quirked back just so, as though reading the thoughts that wrangled in his head. Her hand still rested on his arm, and she squeezed it now. "Come on. Pack your things."

* * *

"This is a terrible idea," Erik groused, even as he filled an overnight bag with clothes and personal items.

Maybe it was; maybe Christine was too optimistic. But she'd been overcome by a combination of protectiveness and guilt, and it would be easier to help him if he were close by.

Despite the circumstances, though, she bit back a smile at his grouchiness. The fact that he'd agreed to come with her...that had to mean he genuinely _wanted_ to come with her, right?

Her lips still buzzed where he'd kissed her. He'd done so with a firm but tender reverence—of that she was almost certain—but then he'd pulled away as though nothing had happened. Why? Why should he fight what was an inevitability, a collision course both fixed and beautiful?

Of course, there was that thorny matter of extortion they had yet to address. It gnawed at the back of her mind, voicing the question she did not want to answer: Could she sit with the knowledge that he had threatened others for money?

"Your detective friend is bound to see us," Erik went on.

Christine all but rolled her eyes. "Darius," she said. "He has a name; I know you know it. And he might not even be home. I'll be able to see from a distance whether his car is there. We'll play it by ear, okay?"

"I do not," he said, "'play it by ear,' as you put it."

She looked at him pointedly. "Current evidence suggests the contrary."

"Current evidence suggests that I desert you here with your infernal sense of righteousness."

"But then who would provide you with the finest of vending machine waters?"

His mouth twitched as he zipped the overnight bag and slung it over his shoulder. "I have seen _far_ more upscale vending machines in my day," he said. He picked up his violin case and joined her at the door. "I suggest that you up your game, as it were." His eyes seemed brighter as he glanced down at her then. The rest of him remained as dark as ever—all brooding, bony shadow—but she wanted nothing more than to fall into him.

"You walked?" he asked, and she nodded. "And I do not have a car. I'll be far too exposed, crossing town on foot like this."

She rummaged through her bag, producing a long red scarf that she dangled for him to see. "Will this work?"

"We are well into November," he admonished. "You need to protect your throat."

"My throat can handle one night of exposure. Hold still."

She wound the scarf around his neck and face until only his eyes were exposed. They seared into her with an intensity that she couldn't explain, one that made her stomach flutter. Once she'd tied off the scarf, her hands slid down to rest at the lapels of his coat. "You look jaunty," she teased, smiling up at him.

"I feel patently ridiculous," came his muffled voice from beneath the thick layers of wool.

"Then it's a perfect disguise, isn't it?" She studied him, her lips pursed in concentration. "You could use a hat, though."

Wordlessly, he reached over her head, lifting a crisp black fedora from a hook she hadn't known was there. The new addition at least tempered the cheer of the scarf, but nothing could ever fully subdue such a saturated red.

The walk back through the steam tunnels was decidedly less ominous this time, though still dank and unpleasant. Once again she followed Erik as his dark coat fluttered behind him. The fedora added a certain element of intrigue to his dark persona, and she found that she liked it very, very much.

It felt strange to emerge from the tower and into the cold night air, as though their hour underground had somehow stretched out over several days. As Christine waited for Erik to lock up the building, a tiny wisp of a snowflake fluttered onto her cheek. She looked up to find more of them drifting lazily from an overcast sky, so sparsely that each seemed to descend and evaporate on its own plane, without ever having met another of its kind.

"The first snow of the year," she said quietly, as he fell into step with her. "Good things happen on first-snow days."

"Mm. Is that so?" With a huff of irritation, he tugged the scarf down so it was easier to talk.

"Yep. Like when I nailed my first big audition. Or when I got the cast taken off my arm."

"Broken bone?"

She nodded. "I'd just seen the 1954 _Peter Pan_ musical and was trying to reenact Mary Martin's big number. I was young enough to believe that I, too, could fly from my bed."

"Yes, well, anyone with experience and sense knows that the best musical numbers are Captain Hook's."

She laughed, shoving icy fingers into her coat pockets. "A fair point."

They continued in silence for some time, their path dotted with rosy-cheeked students who breathed out frosty puffs of air as they trekked across campus. The academic buildings tapered off to blend in with other downtown institutions: the district library, the bus station, the tiny Lebanese restaurant with the best falafel.

Everything surrounding this moment, everything she'd learned about Erik, was sad and stressful and infuriating and _wrong_ —but some small, selfish part of her was strangely and almost giddily at peace, here and now, with him walking beside her.

"And what of today?" he asked suddenly. "Have good things happened on this particular first-snow day?"

Christine cocked her head to glance at him sidelong. "I don't know. You tell me."

He let out a quiet bark of laughter. "If I were to answer on your behalf, the answer would almost certainly be no."

"Presumptuous."

"And as for my own experience..." He trailed off as they were forced to stop at a crosswalk. "I suppose I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you are the best thing to happen to me in years."

She could only blink, her jaw slack and lips parted. The signal changed and he took off, forcing her to scurry after him.

"Then why did you pull away from me?" she challenged.

Erik did not slow his brisk pace. "You do not deserve to be dragged into this mess."

"But I want to help!"

Now he did stop, rounding on her so abruptly that it startled her, and he backed her into the mouth of a narrow alley, away from foot traffic. "Do you not understand what these men could do to you?" he asked, his voice quietly grim. "I would no more want them to know you _exist_ than to know you are affiliated with me. God knows what they will do when they find out I'm still here, if they have not already."

"Then you're a fool for staying. Working in a university building, no less!"

"It is damn near _impossible_ to find work as a convicted felon," he spat.

She'd heard how difficult the transition from prison could be, but she'd never considered it as it applied to Erik. _Because he shouldn't have been in prison._

At the sight of her wavering resolve, his face softened. "I marketed myself as a contractor and called in a favor from the department head," he explained. "He may have been the one tasked with firing me, but we at least seem to have a mutual understanding that there has been some corruption in play."

"Well, they already know I exist because I've met them. Friend-of-the-family connections, remember?" she added, as his jaw hardened. "Just think of how many places and functions Raoul could get me into."

"You are hardly built for espionage, my dear." He gave her a tight-lipped smile, shaking his head with renewed vehemence. "I cannot predict what lengths this pursuit will drive me to, and I cannot stomach the thought of you finding out."

Oh, but she already knew some of the lengths he'd been driven to, didn't she? She sucked in a breath. "I know about the extortion, Erik."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You. Extorting those men. Nadir told me he suspected—" She was cut off as he clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Might I remind you that we are out in the open?" he hissed. He released her face only to grab her wrist instead, pulling her along as he practically doubled his pace. "Walk faster. It seems we have some things to discuss."

Bewildered and annoyed as she was, she kept quiet for the rest of the trip, in part because she almost had to jog to keep up with him.

At the corner of her street, with the house in view, he stopped and released her. "The lights are off upstairs," he observed. "What about his car?"

"Gone." Relief swelled in her chest and loosened her muscles. "You're safe, then."

"No. Not for a moment." Erik launched into his breakneck speed once again, and she hurried after him.

Christine was barely inside the house, clicking the deadbolt into place, when she turned to find him towering darkly over her. "What's this, then, about me extorting people?"

She blinked in surprise. "Nadir said that some of those men—Firmin and Moncharmin and Raoul's brother—were being extorted by someone untraceable. It just seemed likely that—that—"

"That it was me."

"Well, yes."

"Sorry to disappoint, then. But extortion, in my view, would never be sufficient retribution for what they did."

She was overcome with both relief at his innocence and unease at the unspoken: what _would_ be sufficient retribution, in his eyes? But Erik took a few steps inward, scanning her home with calculated attention, and she was distracted to remember the sorry state she'd left it in: dishes piled in the sink, a basket of clothes in the hall that hadn't quite made it to the laundry room, surfaces generally unwashed and unvacuumed and undusted. She hurriedly removed her jacket and offered to take his as a means of distraction.

"Wait, why were you avoiding Nadir?" she asked.

"I could only assume that he's been lying in wait, expecting me to take matters into my own hands after he failed me so spectacularly. It seems I am not wrong."

He'd moved into the living room by this point, hand grazing the edge of a walnut console table as he peered at the framed photos there. His fingers lingered at the professional still of her, mid-performance, from _Candide._ They stopped altogether at the last frame: her father, cross-legged in a patch of grass, playing his violin as five-year-old Christine danced wildly beside him.

"It did strike me as odd," she said quietly, "that you would have chosen to go after Raoul's brother, since Phil de Chagny Sr. was the one who confronted you."

He frowned down at the photo. "It would not surprise me to learn that he has followed in his father's footsteps. I wonder who they have managed to incense this time?"

"You think they've harassed others?"

"Undoubtedly."

"To the point of violence?"

He looked to her then, lips pressed tightly. "I am not entirely convinced that Buquet's death was self-inflicted."

Her stomach seemed to bottom out. She had forgotten all about Professor Buquet; the reminder of his violent end, combined with the new and unsettling possibility of murder, made her want to curl inside herself and never come out. She felt queasy and lightheaded: a concerted effort by her consciousness to jump ship.

A hand was on her arm, leading her to the sofa. "Sit," Erik instructed. "This was too much to tell you, too soon. Try to put it out of your mind for a moment."

But she couldn't. How could she? This was madness; this was injustice. No wonder he so craved retribution. "Wait," she said hoarsely. "If you're not extorting them, then what _are_ you doing?"

"Culling evidence to convict them, if it exists."

"And if it doesn't?"

"That is not your concern."

"Don't you know what this means, though? I can go to Darius and Nadir and tell them you're innocent. There's no reason for you to hide from them, and maybe they can help—"

He cut her off with a gloved finger at her lips. "Dearest Christine," he said softly, "am I to understand that you brought me, willingly, into your life and your home, at a point when you believed I was guilty of extortion?"

Her pulse quickened. "I guess so, yes."

He briefly closed his eyes, emitting a wisp of a sigh. "Why on earth would you do that, you foolish girl?"

"To help a friend?" Even as she spoke the words, she found herself leaning into him.

"Mm. Is that what we are? Friends?" Was it a figment of her imagination, or was he leaning toward her, too? She felt the pull of gravity in her sluggish movements, the increasing heaviness of her eyelids: that loose licentiousness of intoxication, but without the alcohol. But she was not so far gone as to miss the shaky breath that escaped his lungs.

"We could be something else, if you wanted," she murmured, and then his mouth was on hers.

For one moment, everything was perfect and safe and warm, warm from the heat of his breath and from the fire that now burned in her chest. For one moment, she lost track of who and where she was. There were only his lips and hers, working in tandem to create a delicious friction; there was only his gloved hand cupping the side of her jaw to steady her.

And there was his mask, hard and unyielding, pressing into her face again and again: a barrier both physical and symbolic. She cupped a hand to one side of it as she drew back. "May I?"

His eyes darkened. "Once tonight was enough, Christine."

As if to temper her inevitable disappointment, he leaned in and kissed her again, lips and teeth catching at her bottom lip, tugging playfully. The resulting squeak at the back of her throat was almost inhuman, and he smiled devilishly against her mouth.

She kissed him harder. His breath hitched as she wound her arms around his neck, pulling herself even closer, and then a bony arm tightened against her back. She could no longer recall how this had started, only knew that she did not want it to stop.

As if on cue, her phone chimed loudly, startling both of them apart. With a shaky laugh, she pulled it from her pocket. "Text from Darius," she said. "He's at Raoul's for the night. Suggests I update him tomorrow."

"We ought to discuss that."

"Yes, but not now. It's so late." Wearily, she got to her feet. The sofa sagged with age, and it was only now that she realized how comical Erik looked in it, his knees jutting out sharp and awkward, like frog's legs. She extended a hand to help him up. His eyes flickered with amusement, and he accepted.

She showed him to the spare room. It had last been occupied by Mama Valerius, about two years prior, and it still bore the framed postcards from her scattered travels with the professor, most of them from the couple's younger, scrappier days, when they'd pinched every penny to see the world: Lisbon, Budapest, Reykjavík, Mumbai.

She excused herself to grab clean sheets for the bed, and he was gone when she returned. She found him back in the living room, perusing the stack of sheet music atop the piano with his usual solemnity. He held up a haggard-looking book titled _Timeless Piano Duets._ "Are you attempting to master the one-person duet?"

"I used to play those with my dad," she replied, smiling weakly. "Sometimes I still do, as a comfort. But of course it's not the same. It's...emptier."

"I apologize," he said. "I was flippant."

She shook her head. "It's fine. It's stupid, really. Every time I play, it's like some part of me wants _so badly_ to hear that other half, even when I know it can't happen." She watched him flip through the pages, his mouth drawn, before she remembered the sheets. "I'll go put these on the bed."

"You will do nothing of the sort." Erik set down the book and snatched up the linens. "You sit and play one of those." He nodded toward the duets before disappearing into the bedroom.

Christine sat gingerly in front of the keys, her hands in her lap as she considered his request. Piano had never been her strong suit; she'd only ever meant for it to accompany her voice. The thought of an audience now, however small, made her heart race. But if she couldn't play a single song for her teacher, what hope did she have for any sort of music in her future?

With heavy reluctance, she opened the duet book and began to play: "The Rose," a favorite of her father's, from a movie older than she was. She had always let him carry the melody: because he'd liked it so much, and because she would often sing along. Her fingers sank readily into their assigned movements, their muscle memory somehow overcoming years of dormancy in a matter of seconds.

There was a dark blur of motion in her periphery: Erik, emerging from his room. Her fingers faltered; she hit a wrong note and scrambled to find her place in the music. He seemed to slow his approach, as though not to spook her, and her hands regained some of their steadiness.

Then he sat beside her on the bench, and her anxiety shot sky-high.

His broad hands joined hers on the keys, and the sound of the full duet evoked her father's presence so vividly that she just barely caught the sob that rose up fast in her throat. But the melody lifted her fingers, and she played with more love and depth and intention than she had in years.

Beside her, Erik's form was less rigid than usual. The piece was clearly easy for him, and she caught him sneaking a sidelong glance on several occasions. His gray shirt dusted the sleeve of her cardigan as they played. Then it was arm brushing against arm, until by the end of the piece, their forearms were touching with equal pressure.

She couldn't form words at the song's conclusion. It was Erik who broke through the thick silence. "Did you know," he said, "that at one point in history, piano duets were considered shocking by the more conservative folk?"

Christine smiled and inched closer, heat coursing all the way down to her toes. "Is that so?"

"Mm. They allowed for young people of the opposite sex to situate themselves quite intimately." He spoke with his head lowered, angled to the side, so that his voice drifted huskily into her ear. "Sometimes the players might even touch."

"How very scandalous." She turned her head to make it easier for him to kiss her, and he did: chastely this time, and tenderly. As he pulled away, the fingers of his right hand began to roam the keys with consummate ease, working through restless trills and scales and little melodies.

"How can you play so well with those gloves on?" she asked.

"Practice," he said. "And necessity."

She shook her head vehemently. "Not a necessity. Not here."

"There is no need to patronize me, Christine." His reply was quiet but sharp.

"I'm not patronizing you," she insisted. "I think your hands are—are beautiful."

He peered down at her, mouth drawn, and she sensed a raised eyebrow even through the mask. "Now you are most certainly patronizing."

She huffed. "Can you stop being a self-effacing jerk for once and just accept a compliment?" She lifted a gloved hand, cradling it between her palms. "I don't care what it looks like; touching your skin is a hundred times better than touching leather."

Erik inhaled shakily. "I will remove the gloves," he replied, "if you provide vocal accompaniment."

"Fine."

They started the song again, and for the first time in years, Christine began to feel at home in her own house.


	12. Safe Harbor

They did not play the piano long.

He caught Christine swaying slightly, erratically, beside him at the conclusion of their duet. "You need to sleep," he said, "and it is best that we not get into the habit of doing this. Not here, anyway."

She nodded drowsily. By the time she had swiveled on the bench, he was already on his feet, and he offered his hand: his bare hand, one that tingled with the pins-and-needles feeling of a waking extremity once her fingers took hold. She did not let go, even after she stood.

Slowly, Erik walked her to her room. She glanced over at him more than once, as though to confirm he was still there. He might have needed convincing himself, were it not for the tender warmth of her palm, the pressure of her fingertips on his hand.

Outside her door, she released his hand to face him. "There's a bathroom attached to your room," she said, "with a clean towel and washcloth on the rack."

"Thank you." He peered down at her, feeling pressure to say something else but at an utter loss. And then she hugged him.

He froze at the feel of her head on his chest, at the way her breathing slowed and deepened as she leaned into him, as though she had anchored herself there for comfort. Eventually, he had the presence of mind to curl an arm around her shoulders, to cradle the back of her head with his other hand, and to breathe in the scent of her, something delicate and powdery and clean. He had no idea what was happening or why, but he'd be damned if he deterred any of it.

Her voice was muffled as she spoke into his coat. "I'm glad you're here."

"As am I." He meant it, if only in that moment.

Christine drifted into her room, flashing him her trademark soft smile as she gently closed the door.

He was still staring at the spot she'd just occupied when the door reopened. "I forgot to brush my teeth," she whispered, and she scurried into the neighboring bathroom. A smile played at the corner of his lips.

He could see into her bedroom through the half-open door. The lighting was warm and dim: a small desk lamp in one corner, a few strands of tiny string lights on the wall above the bed. The bed itself was a soft, tousled nest of coral and white, with a puffy duvet and far too many pillows. A vanity near the door was strewn with pens and cosmetics and tangled earbuds, and Erik caught a whiff of something spiced and autumnal.

Each detail was perhaps abhorrent in its own right, but the sight of everything here, together, made his heart ache in the best of ways. She felt so much more tangible now: no longer an angel of music passing through, but a real, solid person who ate gummy bears in bed and tacked all of her playbills to a giant bulletin board.

He slipped away before she could catch him peeking.

Later, as he lay in the guest bed, the scent and softness of her still lingered on his lips and skin. The _feeling_ of her, though: that was something else entirely. It took root in his chest and unfurled into his limbs: new life, flourishing in the sun's warmth.

Music flooded his brain. First was a violin concerto that paraded before his mind's eye in a bright spring green, with whirls of lavender and yellow. It was terribly unoriginal in its evocation of Vivaldi, but vivid and enchanting nonetheless.

If he shifted his focus away from that feeling and more on _her_ , then the notes rearranged themselves, becoming more sparse and mellow, the melody unfolding in rosy pinks and glowing oranges, in inky purples that bled into muted blues: a sunset, casting the earth into spectacular color as it heralded the deep quiet of the night.

Night was when music came to Erik now. In prison, it had been his only time of solace, when his face had been far removed from harsh overhead lights and he could hear himself think. His fingers would twitch at his sides to recall the tender neck of a violin, or the sleek keys of a piano, rigid but yielding.

Now they twitched to recall the warmth of Christine's hands on his.

At present, he entertained both slipping away into the night and slipping into her bed to pull her to him. He wouldn't do the latter, of course; he was already appalled by how quickly he'd let down his guard. (But then, as it turned out, she was _quite_ adept at kissing.)

Neither could he leave, as much as he wanted to spare her his troubles. He suspected that the universe would only find a way to unite them again. And, if he was to be perfectly honest, she had awoken that base need in him for interaction, for affection, and he would now selfishly cling to it while he could. Sublime kissing aside, Christine Daaé was the first person to consider him a friend in more than half a decade. He might have thought that of Detective Khan once, but circumstances had proven otherwise.

He still thought of Nadir Khan, more often than he would have cared to admit.

His involvement in Khan's prison assault had been born more of spite than of heroism. The assailant in question had provoked him from day one, watching Erik through pale, beady eyes spaced unsettlingly far apart. There had been something molelike in the man's appearance: a squat, bald head; a pudgy yet beakish nose; lips so thin they barely existed, save to form a downturned arc of a mouth. Yet when Erik was placed on the janitorial crew with him, this man, this bumbling _mole-man_ , had given him a grotesque sneer. "Can't you cover your face or something, freak?"

The man jostled Erik at every turn, lobbed cutting remarks, ensured that all of the most degrading jobs were left to him. Others followed suit. It was grade school all over again, but worse: Erik could not run home after class. These men defined his existence.

He was on high alert the morning the detective passed through; beady-eyes had been acting shiftier than usual. The appearance of a handmade weapon, therefore, did not surprise him; what caught him off guard was the realization that he was not its target. Something had already snapped within him, though, and in a half second he'd gone from self-defense mode to launching himself at the man who was about to take down an officer.

That was the last he saw of his tormentor.

Others swept in to fill the role, of course. After all, he'd defended a cop. He had a waxy, misshapen yet near-featureless face that unnerved them. He "talked too smart." They took to calling him "No Face," which he found patently ridiculous because he _had_ a face, but it spread regardless, until even the guards were using it as casually as if it were his God-given name.

By the time he was summoned for a private meeting with Nadir Khan three months later, he nearly regretted coming to the man's aid.

The detective gave him a firm handshake before motioning for him to sit at a conference table. "I wanted to meet the man who saved my life," he said, sitting in the chair opposite. He looked unflinchingly into Erik's face. "I'm in your debt." Despite his smile, there was a faint, pervasive sadness in his eyes. Erik recognized it as the same haunted sadness that he saw in the mirror each day. Still, he remained silent.

Khan sipped at a styrofoam cup. "So what did you do to land yourself here?"

Erik laughed, the sound sharp and acrid in his throat. "Nothing," he said. "I did absolutely nothing to land myself here."

"Your file says otherwise."

A huff. "Why ask, then?"

"I wanted to hear it from you. Coffee?" Erik waved away the offer, and Khan continued. "I'd happily put in a good word for you, but you're not eligible for parole." He reached for a paper shopping bag at the end of the table, removing a stack of five books for Erik to see.

"I had to settle for authorized material goods as a means of expressing my thanks. Books to start." He inched them across the table. "I don't know what you like," he said, "but the girl at the bookstore said they're this year's bestsellers."

Erik scanned the titles. They were all book award finalists, with no signs of an Oprah endorsement, and he nodded his tacit approval. He had already tired of the prison library selection.

"I also deposited a generous sum to your commissary account," the detective added, "so you can purchase all the ramen that your heart desires."

"Ah, joy of joys."

Khan smiled, tapping a finger on the table for emphasis. "In all seriousness, though, there's more than enough in there for electronics, if that's what you wanted."

That did give him pause. He had not overlooked those pricier items on the commissary list: MP3 player, headphones, book light. He had not allowed himself consideration of them, depleted as his funds were following his arrest and ultimate conviction. Restored access to music would make his days infinitely more tolerable.

"Again, our options are limited," his benefactor continued, "but let me know if there's anything else you need."

"The only thing I need," came the reply, "is a reprieve from these miscreants."

"Surely they're not all bad?"

Erik eyed him pointedly, aiming an index finger up at his malformed face. "How many friends do you think I net with this?"

"Alright, point taken." Khan leaned back in his chair, gazing thoughtfully at the opposite wall. "How about we hang out here for a bit, then? I don't have anywhere to be for another two hours."

"And do what? Trade campfire stories?" Erik flinched inwardly at his knee-jerk hostility; in truth, he would have been happy to scrub the bathrooms with a toothbrush for two hours if it got him some respite from his fellow inmates.

"I don't know. Do you play cards?"

"Not by choice."

"Chess?"

"Depends on whether your ability is worth my time."

A wry smile tugged at a corner of the detective's mouth. "Let me get the set from the rec room," he said, rising from his seat, "and we'll find out."

They did not speak for the entirety of the game. It was a weight lifted from Erik's shoulders, to not have to concern himself with who might be lurking around the next corner, whether they would attempt to trip him or shove him into a wall, whether anything he said might be misinterpreted as a personal slight.

Khan turned out to be a decent player, though not quite good enough. Still, he graciously conceded the game when it came time. "You know," he said, "I'm here every week. We could make this a regular thing."

The notion came off as so pitying that Erik nearly rejected him out of hand, but something in the man's eyes stopped him: that dark and perpetual sadness, now lit by a cautious optimism. He bit his tongue. "Fine," he said. "You seem like you could use the practice."

From there, they put away the chess pieces, and Khan said he'd grab someone to escort Erik back. His hand had been on the doorknob when Erik interjected. "Khan."

"Yes?"

"Do you have other enemies I ought to know about?"

"Almost assuredly, but I'll be on my guard now."

"Good. I should find it enormously tedious to have to save your life a second time."

Now, as he'd done many times before, Erik tried to pinpoint where he had faltered in their years-long buildup of mutual trust. And as he'd done many times before, he came up with nothing, and his ire for the detective flared up fresh and blistering.

The framed travel postcards on the walls of the guest room seemed to mock him: a reminder that he was still tethered to this place. He was no longer caged, but neither could he fly away.

It was a long time before sleep found him.

* * *

It hit her the moment her eyes opened: Erik was here. In her house.

She had _brought_ him here. Because he was innocent of the arson and extortion—or at least, she needed to believe as much—and he was a fugitive of sorts. Oh, God, she was harboring a fugitive! Or was she? He wasn't a fugitive if he wasn't technically wanted, was he? There was no warrant out for his arrest. He wasn't wanted for questioning.

But she'd known that he might be, eventually. That made her just as guilty, didn't it? And what if Nadir _did_ decide to bring Erik in? Her stomach roiled at the awful impulsiveness she'd displayed the night before.

Well, not all of it.

She found herself smiling even amid her newfound stress. He had kissed her! More than once! She relished the memory of his arm pulling her in, of his long fingers splayed against her back, and the source of her recklessness became obvious.

The realization that he might be awake, however, made her spring out of bed. She pulled on clothes even though her every instinct screamed at doing so pre-coffee, she combed her tousled hair, and she darted into the bathroom to brush her teeth, noting that his door was closed. Perhaps she'd have time to tidy the kitchen. Or maybe—and here her mind conjured images of Raoul and Darius in their blissful domesticity—she could even cook breakfast for the two of them.

Teeth cleaned, she headed for the kitchen. As she passed Erik's door, it swung open with a swiftness that sent her reeling backward with a squeak.

"Good morning," he said, unfazed. "Might I trouble you for an iron?" Only his head jutted out of the gap in the door, but she could see enough of his collar to know it was the dress shirt he'd worn the day before.

"Um." She blinked at him with still-bleary eyes. "Yeah. Hang on."

She headed for the linen closet. She supposed it was reasonable to want an iron after one's clothes had spent the night in a bag, but before coffee? How long had he been awake?

She handed off the appliance and the ironing board, got a pot of coffee brewing, and set to making the kitchen presentable. She had just finished and was pouring herself a cup of coffee when Erik appeared, dressed for the day in a gray vest and slacks, with a slate-blue shirt and black tie. It was the first time she'd seen him in any sort of color, and between that and the fitted cut of the vest, she nearly dropped her mug.

"Hi," she said awkwardly, and he gave a nod of acknowledgment. "There's some breakfast stuff in the pantry, or I can make eggs. And the coffee should be ready, if you want some."

Erik opened the pantry to peruse the selection of flavored cereals and oatmeal. "Is there a child living here?" he asked.

"Shut up." Even as she flushed, Christine couldn't stop her mouth from curling up at the edges.

She made eggs and toast for the both of them, in the end. Rather, she made eggs for herself and forced a pair on him, intent as he was on not inconveniencing her, and he then insisted on overseeing the toast. She had to bite her lip at the sight of him, mouth drawn and spine tense, hovering over the toaster like an ominous bread warden.

At the table, she could not help but watch as he cut, with rare precision, an even square from the white of the egg before each bite. At one point he caught her staring, and she quickly looked away.

Here, in the light of day, the events of the previous night seemed so long ago; she found herself feeling shy around him again. The mask both helped and did not help. It was still an unwanted barrier between them, and yet...she could still feel it, the shock of unease that had rippled through her at the sight of his face. It had been strong enough to make her drop the mask. What if she pushed to see it again, only to react just as visibly? She was certain he would resent her for it.

"You're wearing your gloves again," she observed. That, she could handle.

He glanced at her pointedly. "One admittance does not grant you an all-access pass, Christine. Trust is hard-earned."

She stiffened. "Then maybe you shouldn't have agreed to stay here."

She immediately regretted her words. Of course he couldn't trust her implicitly; that was unreasonable. It was childish of her to be hurt by the thought. She ducked her head and feigned sudden interest in her toast, dragging a piece of crust through a small pool of egg yolk.

"Forgive me," he said, more quietly now. "I am grateful for your kindness. I just..." He frowned at his plate in her periphery. "I need time."

They lapsed into silence again, filling the space with their chewing and sipping and, eventually, the scraping of her fork as she pushed the remains of her breakfast around the plate, waiting for him to finish. Finally, he reached out with gloved fingers to still her hand, his jaw rigid with irritation. "Allow me," he said, and he stood to collect the dishes.

As they cleaned up from breakfast, he insisted she not alter her day's schedule on his account. Disappointed as she was, she had to concede that there were errands to run, and she did not have enough food to sustain two people past breakfast.

In the meantime, he said, he would call in sick for the day. He'd spend his time searching for a new place to stay, and perhaps later the pair of them could go into the tower after hours to collect his things. It would be too difficult for him to commute from her house unseen, he maintained, so he would stop working, and make it look like he'd left town.

She protested—what about his beloved carillon?—but he shook his head. "It was only a matter of time." He finished scouring and drying the skillet, and then he excused himself to his room. "Open some of the curtains before you leave," he instructed. "It will look suspicious otherwise. I can stay in the guest room for the day."

"What about lunch?"

"That breakfast will sustain me."

He left, and she called a polite goodbye after him, wishing desperately that he would just kiss her again.

His door was open a crack when she returned late that afternoon. Once she'd put away groceries, she knocked softly and entered at his invitation. He sat propped against the headboard, legs sprawled out in front of him, an open book in his hands.

"I'm going to close the living-room curtains for a bit," she said, "if you'd like to read out there. Maybe I'll join you."

By the time she'd grabbed the novel from her bedside table, he had relocated to the living-room sofa. He glanced up as she sat on the opposite end. "Were you not supposed to meet up with your detective friend today?"

"He hasn't said anything, and I'm in no rush to talk to him. He's probably at work right now." She flashed Erik a cheery smile. "Maybe if I'm lucky, I can avoid him forever!"

He frowned. "We ought to discuss what you plan to say to him, actually."

"Fine, fine. But can we read for a bit first? I'm beat."

He gave a small exhale of disapproval, but he acquiesced. She opened her book and attempted to settle in.

She _wanted_ to read. She wanted to sink back into what had previously been a compelling narrative. But Erik's nearby presence distracted her, thrilled her, made it impossible not to read the same sentence over and over again until she was almost ready to hurl the book across the room.

More than once she looked over only to find him sneaking a glance, too. Their eyes were always quick to dart away from each other. Her pulse began to ring in her ears.

Suddenly there was a flash of movement to her right, and the book was snatched from her grip, landing on the coffee table with a soft _thwack_ as Erik's hand found the back of her neck, pulling her in, his lips descending on hers. The sudden pressure of his mouth drew a whimper of surprise from her throat, and his lips swept into hers more broadly, as if to stifle and swallow that cry.

Her forearms wound their way around his neck as though they were meant to fill that space, to fit into his form like interlocking pieces, and in return his arms enfolded her as securely as they had the night before. He kissed her more tenderly now, working from different angles, biding his time.

"You are awfully enthusiastic," she said, words broken up and muffled by the onslaught of his mouth, "for someone who shied away from touch just yesterday."

"Mm." He caught her upper lip between his and tugged. "It seems I am inexplicably drawn to yours." His hands wound themselves into the fabric of her shirt, twisting it, creating a heady friction against her skin. But he stopped kissing her for a moment, his mouth sliding off of hers so that their cheeks lay flush against each other. Again the mask was an impediment. "It's been so long," he said, his voice tinged with quiet desperation. "So long since I've done this."

She wasn't sure what precisely "this" was, but she thought she understood. It had been so long—years—since she'd been in a relationship, even a more familial relationship, that his lips and hands and sharp, reedy frame beckoned to her like a drug. But it wasn't unexpected for someone deprived of air or food or water to react to its appearance by gorging on it, by overindulging until beyond sated. Why shouldn't it be the same for someone deprived of touch?

As if he'd read her mind, Erik's lips found hers again. They parted at his steady urging, welcoming the warmth of his breath, the quick lash of his tongue. And then he kissed her again, and she lost all concept of time.

He kissed her, and she kissed back, until her lips were tingling and her nose was sore from pressing into his mask. And still they kept at it. He released her at some point, the absence of his arms introducing an unwelcome chill, but he did not pull his mouth away.

Moments later his hands found her waist, gripping, circling around to the back, where they slid up under her shirt. Her abdomen contracted at his touch: he had removed his gloves. His bare fingers worked slow circles into her skin, and she released a grateful whimper into his mouth.

Her phone chimed in her pocket.

 _Oh, for the love of God_ — _not again._ She ignored it, dipping her tongue into Erik's mouth so that he groaned and gripped her tighter, but then he pulled his lips away with palpable reluctance. His forehead pressed itself to hers, the mask cool and slippery against her skin. "You should check your phone," he said breathlessly.

"Later." She moved in to reclaim his mouth, but he ducked just out of reach.

"It could be Whatshisface, heading over as we speak."

She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. "Darius," she corrected, pulling the phone from the pocket of her jeans. The message wasn't from Darius, though: it was from Lisa Sorelli.

"Oh God," she said, clapping a hand to her mouth. "I almost forgot!"

"What's that?" Erik bent to retrieve his gloves from the floor, as though sensing there would be no more locking of lips for the time being.

"I'm supposed to see a play tonight with a friend," she replied. "Phil de Chagny's girlfriend, actually. She just texted to confirm the details."

"Well, do not cancel your plans on my account." His mouth pulled taut. "Though I cannot say I am terribly excited about you rubbing elbows with these people."

Christine gave him another peck on the lips. "Maybe she'll tell me something of interest!" she said, scrambling to her feet. "I'm going to go change."

* * *

It was dark when Christine and Lisa stepped out of the civic theater downtown, both grinning and cackling over the evening's show. They'd stayed just long enough to praise Meg on her performance, Lisa worrying that her parking meter would run out of money if she lingered too long.

Out on the city sidewalk, Lisa dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "Oh, God, that was the funniest thing I've seen in a long time. That'll teach me not to wear mascara to a show." She wore a flouncy black skirt with dark leggings, and she shivered profusely when the cold November wind came whipping through. The breeze tossed her dark hair in every direction but did nothing to erode its perfect shine.

"I was pleasantly surprised by how well done it was," Christine said, flipping through the show's program. "I'm running out of room for these things on my bulletin board. Maybe I need to take over the spare room, too. Aim for a world record."

Lisa opened her mouth to reply, but her smile suddenly faltered and fell as she stared past Christine.

"What?" asked Christine, glancing over her shoulder. "What is it?"

Lisa hesitated, looking from Christine's face to the same point behind her, and then she moved in closer. "See that black SUV parked across the street? With the tinted windows?"

"Yeah?"

"I think it's been following me."

" _What_?" Christine looked at the vehicle again. It was angled away from them, so she couldn't see in through the windshield. Anyone watching them would have had to do so through the rearview mirror.

Lisa only nodded. "I know you walked here, but would you mind coming to the parking lot with me? I don't want to walk to my car alone."

Christine readily agreed, and it was only once they'd traveled a block that Lisa began to elaborate. "So I think I've seen this car three times in the last week." The wind picked up again, and she began to slip on a pair of gloves from her jacket pockets.

"First was when I was leaving the library, because it was parked where a bus needed to pull in, and it freaked me out when the bus driver started honking." She looked over her shoulder, and Christine followed suit; the SUV hadn't moved. "I remember thinking that it looked really out of place, because it's this huge, dark, shiny Range Rover in a city where everyone is big on fuel efficiency."

The metered lot was just ahead, and Lisa combed through her bag for her keys. "How about I drive you home?" she asked. "It's so cold tonight."

"Sure, thanks." Christine might have protested had it been a normal evening, but she wanted to hear more. She outlined the route to her house as they approached Lisa's modest blue sedan, which blessedly had not been ticketed despite the meter running out.

She checked her phone once she'd slid into the passenger seat. She'd missed a text from Darius asking whether she was free to meet up. _Sorry, out with a friend tonight,_ she replied. _Will have to catch up with you later._ The weight of her relief was enough to prompt a twinge of guilt. She shoved her phone back into her pocket and turned her attention to Lisa. "So what makes you think this car is following you specifically?"

"Hang on." Lisa had pulled out into the street, and now she checked her rearview mirror as steadily as she could afford. Her knuckles on the steering wheel were white.

Reflexively, Christine checked the mirror on her side of the car. "Are they following us?"

Lisa sighed. "I don't know; it's too dark to tell. Oh, God, my hands are shaking."

She made a left turn, again checking her mirrors as she did so. "So a couple days ago I got out of work, and it was there _again_. That same Range Rover, parked in the street, but facing away so I couldn't see into it." Ahead of them, the flashing red lights of a railroad crossing lit up, the barrier lowering to block the tracks. Lisa groaned as she slowed the car to a stop. "Ugh, stupid train!"

Her anxiety was so palpable at this point that Christine's own body was tense. "When was the third time you saw it?" she asked.

"That same night! I walked straight from work to meet up with friends at a bar near my apartment, and when we left around midnight, the car was parked in the street there, too. I was specifically looking for it that time."

"Have you told anyone else? The police?"

"What are the police going to do? I called Phil that same night, and he seemed to think there was no reason to worry. Said he's seen plenty of Range Rovers around town, and it was probably just coincidence."

Phil. The extortion. Christine went queasy as Nadir's words came back to her with startling clarity: after being denied ransom, the extortionist had responded with a higher demand and "some vague threats to life and limb."

Nadir had not specified _whose_ life had been threatened.

If Lisa were in danger, though, then why would Phil be so cavalier about it? Was he withholding information because he didn't want her to worry?

Christine chewed at her lip. Erik had been right; she was not cut out for espionage. Still, for his sake, she would at least try. "Is there any reason you can think of why someone might follow you?" she asked. "Anything you or Phil might have gotten mixed up in?"

But Lisa only shook her head. "There's nothing," she replied, with such earnestness that it hurt Christine's heart. Phil was withholding his extortion from not only his brother, but his girlfriend as well.

The train passed through quickly, and it was only another couple minutes to Christine's house. In the driveway, Lisa turned to her. "I know this is a huge favor to ask, and I'm sorry, but would you mind if I stayed here for the night? I'm so scared to go home by myself right now, and Phil's in New York, and you mentioned a spare room..."

Christine froze. She had anticipated some kind of awkward situation with Darius, but not _this_. What could she do? Did she compromise Erik's safety, or Lisa's? There was no possible way to accommodate them both—or if there was, then her imagination had failed her in a moment of critical need. Her ability to improvise seemed to have jumped ship as well. "Sure," she said hoarsely. "Not a problem."

She slowly got out of the car, distantly aware of Lisa's profuse expressions of gratitude as she lobbed a text at Erik. _Grab your things and hide in my room. Now._

"There's a light on in your house," Lisa said, pointing to the perimeter of yellow that illuminated the kitchen curtains.

"Yeah, I leave it on sometimes when I expect to be home late," Christine lied. "Makes me feel better." She made a show of rummaging through her bag for her keys, hoping to buy Erik more time. And then, with her heart thumping madly in her chest, she unlocked and slowly opened the door.

* * *

A/N: "I should find it enormously tedious to have to save your life a second time" is a quote directly from Susan Kay's _Phantom_ that I love and just happened to be appropriate here.

Also, please be forewarned that the fic rating will likely change to M soon. This was not a planned development, but the story as published is very different from the one that began in my head. :)


	13. In the Shadows

A/N: We veer into some M-rated territory near the end of the chapter. I'll be changing the rating shortly.

* * *

Christine had just enough time to see that the kitchen was clear before Lisa grabbed her.

"There's a car pulling up," Lisa said, her voice increasing in pitch. Her hand trembled against Christine's forearm.

The vehicle was sidling directly into the driveway, next to Lisa's sedan. Its headlights were blinding in the dark, such that Christine couldn't make out the vehicle, but their height from the ground was indicative of an SUV.

"Get inside," she urged quietly, and Lisa obeyed without hesitation. "I'll be there in a minute." Christine shut the door to Lisa's protests. Terrified as she was, she had to know who was in the car.

Her heart raced even faster now as she waited, hand on the doorknob, ready to run. With her other hand, she pulled up Darius' contact page on her phone.

The engine shut off, and then the headlights. Christine blinked away the bright spots in her eyes. The SUV was not black, but a metallic charcoal gray, like liquid mercury. Out of its driver's side stepped Raoul.

"Hey!" he called, raising a hand in greeting. "Fancy meeting you here." He wore a fitted navy jacket that brought out the brilliant blue of his eyes, even in the dim porch lighting, and every ounce of her tension melted away to leave her sagging with relief.

She pushed the door open. "It's okay; it's just Raoul," she murmured to Lisa, who poked her head out to confirm.

Raoul had made his way to the porch by then. "Yes, just me. Sorry to disappoint."

"Wasn't Darius just at your place?" asked Christine.

"Yeah. He left his phone charger behind." He held up the charger so she could see it. "I decided to be chivalrous."

"Wait," said Lisa, "is this your new guy? He lives here?"

"You want to meet him? You guys are welcome to come up and hang out."

Christine looked to Lisa, eyebrows raised in question, silently hoping that she'd decline. She wanted desperately to see Erik, to apprise him of what was happening.

Instead, Lisa flashed her a hopeful glance. "I'd love to meet him."

"Sure," she replied, with forced enthusiasm. "You guys go on up. I'll just change into something more comfortable first."

She watched them disappear into the staircase entrance, and then she bit her lip as she readied herself to find Erik.

* * *

The evening _had_ been going well, all things considered.

Erik spent much of it with his composition software, attempting to pin down his inspiration from the night before, when melody had crept up on him and woven, catlike, around his mind. The laptop was no substitute for a keyboard at his fingertips, but he made do. As long as he got the basics down, he could flesh out the music later.

Later. When would that be? He'd had no luck finding a new residence, despite half a day's efforts. It was not the sort of place where a landlord would hand over the keys without question. There were background checks, and red tape, and every sort of documentation he wished to avoid at present. Hidden bunkers were even harder to come by, if one did not know where to look. He knew the city well, but not _that_ well.

Already he felt the confines of this place. It was easily a thousand times better than prison, of course, but still the walls closed in on him, caged him like an anxious rat: a sensation only intensified by the knowledge that he depended on another person for basic provisions.

He longed for the fleeting daylight that the privacy of the carillon had afforded him, for the office to which he could have provisions delivered, for the ability to move among steam tunnels and hallways and classrooms as he pleased.

When he'd finally let himself compose, it had been to keep himself from hurling his laptop at the wall.

His stomach began to rumble at odd intervals. He ignored it until it grew late, at which point he closed the laptop in exasperation and made his way to the kitchen, where Christine had insisted he help himself to the contents of the fridge and pantry. He was taking stock of the fridge when a car door slammed just outside.

He froze. Christine had walked the few blocks to the theater; he knew that much. There was a creak of the front door, and then a knock at the kitchen entrance. "Christine?"

It was the young detective. Erik remained stock-still, every muscle fighting not to reach out and close the fridge door. The detective knocked again. There was a long pause, and then retreating footsteps that traveled up the neighboring stairs and into the apartment overhead.

When he was satisfied that the detective was preoccupied for the time being, Erik set to making himself a sandwich. This living arrangement, he had to admit, was workable for the time being. Annoying, yes, and inconvenient—but workable.

He'd just put away the last of the sandwich ingredients when another pair of headlights shone through the kitchen curtain. _A guest going upstairs_ , he told himself, but he remained rooted to the spot, waiting. The subsequent chime of his phone—an incoming message—only increased the dread building coldly into his chest.

 _Grab your things and hide in my room_ , the message read. _Now._

Cursing under his breath, Erik snatched the finished sandwich from its plate and ran.

He cut through the guest room like a cyclone. He arrived at Christine's room with his overnight bag over one shoulder, his laptop bag over the other, and his arms laden with whatever else had been sitting out, the sandwich balancing precariously on top of it all. He set everything on the scalloped teal rug at the center of the room, and he was just closing the bedroom door when he heard the click of the doorknob at the front entrance. He pressed his ear to the wood and waited.

The front door shut abruptly. There was half a minute of unsettling silence, then murmured voices: Christine's, he thought, and another woman's, and then decidedly a man's.

He assumed Christine was doing what she could to keep others out of the room, but he was still a sitting duck should someone happen to wander in. He quietly pulled apart the pair of bifold doors to her closet and, deeming it spacious enough, wedged himself into a small space on the floor, beneath the hanging clothes. He slid long fingers under the doors to pull them shut, and then he finally let himself tuck into the sandwich.

His grateful stomach quieted as he chewed. Some of his irritation subsided, though not all: what _had_ she gotten them into?

He checked his phone for additional messages, but there were none. And then, in the blue light of the tiny screen, something caught his eye: a violin case.

Erik polished off the rest of the sandwich, brushing the crumbs from his palms before he reached for the case. Even in low lighting, it was clear that it had seen better days. He set his phone on the floor with its flashlight on, and he lay the case on its side to unlatch it.

The violin lay nestled in a bed of wine-colored velvet. He ran a finger along its wooden edge before he lifted it, gingerly, to set it on his knee. It was older than his; he could tell that much. But it had been well loved, and well cared for, and it had character.

The bedroom door creaked open, and he was quick to turn off his phone. Several moments of silence followed.

"Erik?"

Christine's voice was barely above a whisper. Before he could respond, the bifold doors opened to her round face. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. "My father's violin," she remarked.

"I was terribly curious; I apologize." He placed the instrument back in its case.

"No, no, I'm glad it's getting some attention. I was just surprised, is all." She sat cross-legged on the floor across from him. "It's still playable?"

"Of course. It would likely benefit from a restringing, which I am happy to do." Erik set the case aside and inched out from beneath the clothes, uncrossing his legs to sit with knees pointed up, his back against the wall. He draped his arms over the front of his legs. "So. To what do we owe this clandestine pleasure?"

Her gaze had drifted to his forearms, and he realized with a small lurch of panic that his gloves were still off, and his sleeves still rolled, from when he had made the sandwich. Even in the dim light of the room, the leathery skin of his right arm rose in ridges pink and angry. It was with a forced calm that he began to unroll the shirtsleeves.

"Please don't be mad," Christine said, "but I told Lisa she could stay the night in the guest room."

" _What?"_ The word came out as a hiss. Sleeves now in place, he lurched to his feet. "Is she in there now?"

She scrambled to stand as well. "No, she's upstairs with Raoul and Darius for the time being." Quickly, she recounted the events of their evening, ending with her capitulation in the driveway.

"There are a hundred excuses you could have given," Erik snapped.

"I'm sorry! I panicked! But how could I turn her away, really?"

"I have been here _one day_ , and I am already at risk of being discovered by a random nobody! What happens when Detective Glasses starts sniffing around?"

" _Darius_ ," she said through gritted teeth. "But what if the roles had been reversed, Erik? What if I'd been the one being followed, terrified out of my wits, and Lisa had turned me away at the door?"

"Difficult to say. Am I hiding in her closet in this scenario?"

Christine huffed. "Argue all you want, but I know I did the right thing." She began to collect his belongings from the rug, relocating them as she saw fit. He'd put his dress shirt from the previous night on a hanger, and he was oddly moved to see her add it, with great care, to the closet rack that held her own clothes.

He exhaled in resignation. "You are too soft for your own good, Christine Daaé."

She gave a playful tug of his sleeve, her smile both smug and warm. "It seems to have worked in your favor."

His hands were still uncovered, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to cup her face, feel the gentle heat of her skin, tangle his bare fingers in those brown locks and kiss her. But no: there were logistics to work out first. "And what is your plan for the rest of her stay?"

"Well, to start, I said I'd join them once I changed clothes." She went back into the closet, this time to extract garments.

"While I stay imprisoned in this room?"

He didn't miss how she flinched at the word "imprisoned." "Only for the night," she insisted. "You can come out while we're upstairs; I don't mind."

He shook his head. "Too risky."

Christine's shoulders sank. "Well, then, you can at least have my bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

He was not about to let that happen, but there had been enough argument for the time being. "You need to join your friends," he said. "They will start to wonder."

She hesitated, but one stern look from him and she started moving. She changed into jeans and a long-sleeved tee in the bathroom, and she returned with an armload of clean linens: sheets and blankets for the both of them, a fresh pillow for him. She lingered after that, her eyes wide with some amalgam of guilt and perhaps cloying pity. He would have none of that. A few sharp commands, and he had her on her way upstairs as he listened for the faint and distant sound of her gait on the staircase.

He'd assumed that the women had gone upstairs in order to relay the night's events to the detective. But minutes passed, and eventually a full hour had gone by. Loud bursts of laughter began to punctuate the murmur of voices overhead.

He took out his building irritation on the linens, shaking the folds loose with more aggression than was necessary. The more things changed, as was said, the more they stayed the same. He would forever be relegated to a life of confinement, while the rest of the world passed him by.

* * *

Upstairs, Christine found Darius and Raoul sharing the living-room sofa, while Lisa perched on a neighboring chair, the three of them chatting about grad school. She sat in an armchair opposite Lisa's, still too unnerved by the black SUV to join in. Lisa was making a passable attempt at conversation—perhaps a necessary skill when dating a business mogul—but the hands folded in her lap were fidgety, her smile uneasy.

"Lisa," Christine finally said, "did you know that Darius is a police detective?" When she received only a timid nod in response, she added, "You should tell him." The men's heads lifted in interest.

Lisa glanced down at her hands. "I don't think I want to make a big deal out of it, not after Phil told me I shouldn't."

"I can assure you," said Darius, "that nothing you tell me will be anywhere close to the most unnecessary police calls I've witnessed."

She hesitated, but after an encouraging nod from Christine, she began to chronicle the incidents with the black SUV.

Darius listened intently, his comments soothing, his follow-up questions tactful and patient. Raoul, on the other hand, seemed to grow more uneasy as she spoke, until it was unclear whether he intended to throw up or punch a hole in the wall.

"And my brother told you not to worry about it?" he asked afterward. "Unbelievable! I could strangle him."

"No, don't start anything with him," Lisa pleaded. "He's already so stressed right now."

" _He's_ stressed?"

Darius held up a hand for quiet. "Lisa, can you come down to the station tomorrow and file a report? You can ask for me specifically. Here." He fished a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her. "And if you see the vehicle again, try to get the license plate number, okay? We should be able to check out some security cameras downtown in the meantime."

She nodded and slid the card into her purse, while Raoul grabbed a handful of beers from the kitchen. "We could probably all use a drink," he said, opening and distributing the bottles. Lisa eyed hers suspiciously, only to tilt her head back and swallow whatever protests she might have had along with the brew.

"So this guy," said Darius, jerking his thumb toward Raoul, "has been awfully tight-lipped about his childhood. Surely one of you has something on him?"

Christine had little to work with, so she once again recounted the incident when a slightly inebriated Raoul had lunged into the frigid waters of Lake Michigan to rescue her scarf.

"And they say chivalry is dead," Darius teased. His dark eyes regarded Raoul with the same fierce warmth she'd seen in Erik's gaze the night before, when she'd slipped out of her room to brush her teeth, and now her stomach turned somersaults to recall it.

"Everything I know about his childhood is secondhand," said Lisa, "but I was told that little Raoul wanted to be a dog when he grew up."

Among the burst of subsequent laughter, Darius reached out and tousled Raoul's sandy hair. "And he's getting so close."

Lisa took another sip of her beer, her delicate pink fingernails clicking against the glass. Her eyes lit up as she set it back down. "Oh! And he pulled the fire alarm at a fundraiser in the fancy campus ballroom."

Christine gasped in mock horror, while Raoul ducked his head sheepishly and raked a hand through his mussed hair. "Look, I'm not proud of it," he said. "But in my defense, Phil egged me on. Mom and Dad wouldn't stop dragging us to those God-awful events because Dad thought we needed the exposure, and we were just...so done with it."

"Did you get caught?" she asked.

"Close enough. A family friend saw us running from the fire alarm as soon as it went off." He shook his head as though in disbelief. "That was the summer Dad wanted me to start hanging out at the office, to see how things worked, and I wanted to go to camp. I can't believe he still let me go after that stunt."

"It was because Phil told your dad _he'd_ pulled the alarm." All eyes fell on Lisa, who blinked owlishly at the sudden attention.

"What?"

"He knew how badly you wanted to go to camp," she explained. "I thought you knew?"

"No." Raoul's gaze drifted out over the room as he took a slow swig of his beer. "That camp changed everything for me. Made me realize I didn't want to go into the family business." He let out a bitter laugh. "Took a lot longer to admit that to Dad, of course. Among other things."

"You mean...?" Christine gestured vaguely between him and Darius.

"Yeah." Raoul took another drink; Darius put a consoling hand on his knee. "He and mom still don't know about that. At all." He looked up at Lisa and forced a smile. "Phil's had my back there, too, eh? It's almost like I've never grown up and he's still bailing me out of trouble."

Her face was solemn, her eyes kind. "You know he doesn't think that," she said. She sighed and added, more quietly, "I wish he were here, though."

The room went silent, the four of them sipping at their respective drinks, no doubt thinking desperately of ways to rescue the evening.

It was Christine who did it. "Did I tell you guys about how I thought Darius was a policewoman named Daria?" she asked. There was collective peal of delighted laughter, and the night wore on.

* * *

There was a noticeable and gradual return of tension to Christine's every muscle as she descended the steps to the first floor. She'd enjoyed herself immensely, and had been grateful for this particular band of friends to come together as they had, but she'd been gone too long. She hadn't shaken the feeling she'd abandoned Erik, not since she'd thrown one last look at his solemnly resigned expression and closed the bedroom door behind her.

She got Lisa settled into the guest room, and she felt herself shrinking somehow as she padded down the hall to her own room.

Only the string lights were on, and Erik had already arranged the extra bedding on the rug. He sat with his back against her bed, rangy legs stretched out in front of him, in a fitted navy pajama set with white trim that only served to elongate his already lean frame. He wore headphones that he removed when she entered, but his stoic expression went unchanged.

"An mp3 player?" she whispered, and she flashed him a teasing smile. "I didn't think anybody used those anymore."

"It was all I could access in prison."

Her stomach sank. "I'm sorry."

He said nothing, but folded in his legs and dropped the device into his overnight bag.

"What were you listening to?" she asked.

"Music."

The longer he went without elaborating, the hotter her face grew. Finally, she grabbed a pair of pajama pants from her dresser and excused herself to go change and brush her teeth.

He was irritated with her; she was certain. Should she press him? They were still in the early stages of...whatever this was...and the last twenty-four hours had been so emotionally intense. Eventually, she might push him too far out of her grasp. She couldn't rely on her mouth to save her every time.

How tempting _that_ idea was, though. Christine bit at her lower lip to tame the grin that blossomed there.

She brushed her teeth thoroughly, and flossed, _and_ rinsed with mouthwash. Just in case.

She returned wearing blue plaid pajama bottoms in place of her jeans, clutching her discarded clothes to her chest so he wouldn't notice she'd taken off the bra beneath her shirt. He lay under the blankets on the floor with his back to her, and she huffed. "I told you to take the bed." She kept the words hushed so that Lisa wouldn't hear.

"And I respectfully declined," came his curtly whispered reply.

She exhaled her frustration through her nostrils, shut off the string lights, and climbed under the covers.

Several minutes of silence passed, enough that she thought he might be asleep when she whispered, "If you don't tell me what I did wrong, then I can't fix it."

There was a pregnant pause before a muted reply came from the direction of the blankets.

"What was that?" she asked. "I can't hear you."

"I _said_ , it was ultimately nothing you did."

Still, Christine could just barely make out the words. She grabbed her pillow and slid from beneath the covers to lie on the floor beside him. He shifted to face her, his white mask practically glowing in the darkness, and she could sense more than see the tension in his jaw. "It's too hard to hear you," she explained. "What do you mean, it's 'ultimately' nothing I did?"

Erik exhaled slowly. "I mean that I am fated to exist in the dark, alone, and you are not."

"I don't understand."

"Either I hide from my enemies, or I hide on account of my face. That will not change. And the shadow is no place for a creature of light such as yourself."

"That's awfully reductive."

"But accurate."

She hadn't even noticed how cold she was until Erik lifted the edge of the blankets and folded her into them, into his waiting arm. Even as he did so, he cautioned, "I am not a likable man, Christine."

"I like you."

"Mm, a fact that makes me question your presence of mind."

She thought quietly for a moment. "There are spaces that exist between dark and light, you know," she said. "Different gradations. Like twilight."

"Twilight is fleeting."

She found his hand and twined her fingers through his as he sucked in a breath. "But it's the most beautiful of all the skies, isn't it? When day and night come together?" She tilted her head up to him, just slightly, so that their lips were in line.

"Oh, Christine," he breathed: an echo of his words to her in the steam tunnels, but with entirely different meaning now. She could feel his warm exhalations on her skin. The pocket of air between them grew heated.

She was unconscious of either of them moving, but somehow there came a featherlight brush of lip, so slight that she could have convinced herself she'd dreamt it. Their collective breathing grew heavier in her ears. Another soft touch and she was sinking into him, tasting him, releasing his hand to wind her arm around his neck as he kissed her. For some time, the only sound in the house was the soft, wet crackle of lips meeting and parting and meeting again. The edge of his mask chafed the skin above her lip, but it would not deter her. Her tongue darted out, and he caught it with his own.

She had not forgotten where they'd left off on the sofa earlier that day, and neither had he, if the broad hand sliding under her shirt back was any indication. His fingertips resumed their easy exploration, tracing circles, etching notes that made her skin sing and her spine reverberate.

Gradually his hand slid down, down, and over her waistband to cup her backside through the soft flannel of her pajama bottoms. Every nerve ending in her body kicked into gear, and she released a soft whimper into his mouth. He squeezed harder.

She bucked against him now, needing more, needing to touch and grab and knead. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt and slipped beneath it, coming to rest on his hip. The skin there was cool, and the hipbone jutted sharply into her palm.

A thought tugged at the back of her mind as she kissed him more deeply: there was still a conversation to be had before they went too far, to keep things respectful and safe. How much longer could she put it off? His hand slid around her waist and up the front of her shirt and _oh_ , she could hardly remember her name now. Cool fingers kneaded warm flesh and her head tilted back at the feel of it, her mouth breaking contact with his, gasping for air.

Still that persistent thought nagged at her, but her hand moved of its own volition. Her splayed palm skimmed his abdomen where it met his waistband, and then it ventured up toward his chest. It surveyed the lean muscle there before it swept onto skin more rugged and scaly.

With a sharp hiss, he pulled back and dislodged her hand from beneath his shirt.

She lay frozen in place, chilled by the missing weight of his hand at her breast. "I'm sorry," she whispered, not entirely certain what she was apologizing for.

"It's too much," he said. "Too much, too soon. I thought that, perhaps..." He trailed off, his jaw clenched. "Forgive me."

She forced a tiny smile for his benefit. "It's okay," she said, but her voice came out weak and strained. "I'll get back in bed." She rolled over, but a long arm wrapped around her waist, trapping her.

"Stay."

She hesitated. As if to persuade her further, he curled his arm tighter, reeling her in until she lay flush against him. Every muscle in her body constricted at the sudden closeness.

Two thin fingers were slow to sweep the hair from the side of her neck. Then they were gone, and in their place: lips, tender and dry, ghosting along her skin and giving her goosebumps. Her eyes closed of their own volition, and she exhaled deeply.

The hand at her waist began to move in tandem. It found the hem of her shirt and pulled it up. His broad palm touched down on her bare stomach, fingertips toying with the waistband just below her navel, and she let out a small gasp at the contact, at her sudden understanding: he was not ready to be touched so intimately, but that didn't mean he couldn't touch _her_.

His lips were still working against her neck when his hand slid downward, its pressure warm and firm against her lower abdomen, and stopped just short of where she now burned with need. "Christine," he murmured into her skin.

She writhed at the huskiness of his voice, whose pitch hovered somewhere between hard tenor and soft baritone. "Please," she whispered.

The hand shifted. A single digit emerged to deliver one soft, delicious stroke and she arched into him, gasping. His mouth still moved along the side of her neck as his finger slid down even farther, rubbing back and forth until her jaw hung open in anticipation of that building release.

She was distantly aware of whispered words on her lips—his name? A plea?—as her hips rocked in tandem with his movements. And then she was gone, her vision white and sparking, her thighs clenching around his hand as pleasure zipped and crackled through her every nerve.

He held her as she came down, one hand still between her legs, and he pressed gentle kisses into the shallow dip between her neck and shoulder. She honed in on her breathing, heavy but measured, and willed it to slow. The hand between her thighs slid away.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Erik hummed in acknowledgment and started stroking her hair. Her next breath came out on a heavy sigh.

He had nearly lulled her to sleep when he murmured, "I suppose now is not an appropriate time to inquire as to why there is a mini-fridge in here."

Christine laughed softly, sleepily. "I don't use it much. But it was helpful during a time when—" She hesitated. How should she characterize that time? There was really nothing she could say to make it sound less pathetic. "When it was difficult for me to leave my room."

He stopped touching her hair. "What happened to you, Christine?"

Again she tried to examine that period of her life more objectively. What exactly _had_ happened? It had been more than passing grief; she knew that much.

"Few things in my life have been permanent," she said, slowly, "except for my dad. It was always me and him—and then later, Professor and Mama Valerius, once they took us in. They grounded us." She swallowed. "I don't even think I would've gone to college if it weren't for them."

He curled an arm around her waist once more, as though bracing them both for what was to come.

"Professor Valerius was killed in a car accident seven years ago. And we lost my father, as you know, three years after that."

"And the professor's wife?"

"Two years later. Breast cancer."

His grip on her tightened, but he remained silent.

"With her gone," Christine went on, "there was nothing to hold onto anymore, nothing to anchor me. So I sort of just...drifted away."

"You know what I am going to say." She nodded, tears springing up in her eyes, but he said it anyway. "It's time to swim back."

She sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "I want to," she whispered. "But Erik, I'm so scared."

"Then it will be all the more thrilling when you succeed."

She did not know how to respond, how to express her wonder and gratitude for his enduring faith in her abilities. She placed a hand over the one at her waist, and she absently stroked the rough skin there until she was lulled to sleep.


End file.
